Anotherlea
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: A NEW SEQUEL TO ANNE OF GREEN GABLES. Anne Shirley is sixteen and trying to work out where she fits in a world where Matthew is gone, Diana is boy crazy and Gilbert Blythe is suddenly her friend. What matters to her most is saving Marilla's eyesight. Anne is desperate to find a cure. What she discovers is that there's a whole lot more to the Blythes than even she could imagine.
1. Come down, O maid

**This story is inspired by something a half past sixteen year old girl told me last week. She said she lost interest in Anne books after Anne of Green Gables because the Anne in the later books wasn't like Anne in the first book. This got me wondering if there was another Anne of Avonlea story I could tell, one that would keep her reading, and just like that Anne of Anotherlea was born. I hope she likes it, and I hope you do too.**

 **With thanks to all my readers, especially PB who always seems to know when my imagination needs some scope, to FKAJ for being the E to my I, and to Julie who sent me the poem below just because.**

 **...**

 **ANOTHERLEA**

 **...**

 _How I go to the woods_

 _Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single_

 _friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore_

 _unsuitable._

 _I don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds_

 _or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of_

 _praying, as you no doubt have yours._

 _Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit_

 _on top of the dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,_

 _until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost_

 _unhearable sound of roses singing._

 _If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love_

 _you very much._

Mary Oliver

 _..._

There she is walking hand in hand with _that_ boy -though he would hate being described as such. At eighteen he feels he's in the full plume of manhood and walks like a rooster next to her, struts a little, aware of her eyes on him before she hastily turns away.

She'd like a good look but she would hate to be caught looking. Her head bobs up at intervals like a little red hen, but not the eating kind. At sixteen she's all eyes and legs; her body grows in spurts. This week her feet are longer, yesterday it was her fingers, before that her lashes, her clavicle, her smile...

The last one hurts because she shouldn't feel like smiling yet. Matthew died in June -why did it have to be June? Death belongs to November. June is for lilies and cherry blossom and hot buttered lobster and the day she first came to Green Gables. The buggy had carried them over the bridge and she closed her eyes and said to Matthew,

'Don't tell me, don't tell me, I'm going to live... _there!_ '

Her eyes opened wide and Matthew wasn't sure if he didn't prefer them closed. There was something almost witch-like about her. The word he was searching for was enchanting. Instead he said charming, in his head not out loud. Out loud he said to his sister,

'There wasn't a boy, only her. I think we should keep her.'

Marilla knew straight away the girl had worked some unholy magic on him and was no more inclined to keep her than a two headed stray. She looked like a pale stringy chick back then, the yellow winceyette she wore like half formed feathers that hung from her tiny frame. It wouldn't cost much to clothe her at least. Three plain dresses were run up smartish to cover those arms and legs. Dresses as achingly plain as the room she was put in.

'I was hoping for at least one pretty thing,' she said -one _was_ supposed to tell the truth after all- 'but ugly things have their uses too. There's more scope for the imagination!'

She adores exclamation marks, italics, Octobers and nomenclature, collects kindred spirits the way old women gather mushrooms -you have to know where to look- and ambitions like beads on a string. That particular treasure she keeps in her pocket. Ambition must wait. Though she likes to stroke it sometimes, feel the click and the coolness curled up in her hand. One day she'll don them again and head out onto that far reaching path, but for now she has come to her bend in the road.

The two of them reach the gate of Green Gables. Marilla stands on the porch. Against doctor's orders she strains her eyes in the violet light of a high summer evening, and sees the familiar shape of her girl and the surprising shape of someone else. Not the eternal Diana but a young man, whose shapely arms are waving at odd angles as though straightening an invisible picture. _Shapely._ Why ever did that word come into her head? To punish herself she leaves the porch and goes for the brown sugar she stores in cellar. Her doctor has warned her not to go from bright light to dark in quick succession or it will bring on another headache, but what does he know? Marilla has the batch of cinnamon rolls getting fat under the teacloth and the temperature of the oven just hot enough to bake them, and there are yet no pains behind her eyes. There are also no feet flying up the path, no voice filling the empty house with greetings to the geranium or farewells to the sun. Marilla goes to the porch again. What is that blessed girl doing talking at the gate for going on half an hour?

Anne's listening to Gilbert explain proof by contradiction by way of the square root of two and feeling a fool. Not because he can explain axiomatic method with the same ease in which he can round the leeward wind, but because he might have saved her a lot of bother if she had simply forgiven him years ago and asked for his help. But no, she had to stand there with her shorn head dripping pond water onto her pointed face and tell him what he'd done to her was Un. For. Give. Able. His skin flushed red. She remembers because he was so brown none but the brightest blush showed on his cheek. He's blushing now, but she doesn't know that, she hasn't looked at his face for a full minute. Anne has been following his hands as they fly about the purple light; can still feel his touch, the way his fingers reached past her wrist to the gold hair on her arm.

'I can tell I'm boring you,' he says. 'Ruby's always telling me to change the subject.'

'Not at all,' she says, but there in her eyes, in the way her brows shoot over them, proof she isn't being completely honest.

What happened to the girl who always told the truth? She argues silently with herself, unsure if it's what Gilbert says that is interesting or if it's Gilbert who makes it interesting. Well, if not interesting than necessary. The new school term starts in five weeks and she has a lot to learn before then: how to not look like a dunce in geometry for one. She is determined to be the kind of teacher who inspires a love of learning, hopes of leading one or two of the Avonlea fry to greatness. If she isn't destined for great things it must be a comfort to know you helped someone else get there. Anne is all for comforts, she's been dreaming them up since before she could talk.

No words come to her now, however, as Gilbert slides his hand over the top rail of the gate and says, 'I guess perhaps maybe I should probably go.'

She gives him the, Oh yes I've got a thousand things to do too, nod. And before he can unlatch the gate she does the unthinkable and begins climbing over it as though she was eleven. She lands gracefully enough, though she can't stop fussing with the back of her skirts, anxious they have caught in the stiff black crepe at her hem and her waist. If he should see her stocking tops- but Anne needn't worry. When she half turns and half waves she spies him hunkered down on the other side of the gate, probably tying his boot lace.

The girl laughs at herself as she jogs up the dusty red drive, attempts to grab fistfuls of purple-topped verbena without dropping her pace whilst whispering,

'Vervain and dill hinder witches of their will.'

The result looks like a firecracker, not good enough for the table, perhaps the outhouse could do with some cheer. Anne hunts out the narrow-mouthed jar, the one too small to admit even the smallest spoon, thinking of witches and Euclid and the heart shaped opening in the outhouse door, and happy her head is tucked away when Marilla asks who it was that walked up the lane with her? Anne's face goes pink, she can feel heat collect in the cupboard space and holds the glass against her mouth.

'Gilbert Blythe.'

Her lips kiss against it with what feels like the murmuring of innumerable Bs. Who knew? She laughs again when she stands and observes the dry smile on Marilla's face. Today has been a Good Day. No headaches, no blurs, no worrying sheen to her eyes, as though the promise that her girl would not take the scholarship and remain in Avonlea had already begun to work upon her.

And Anne is determined to see it though. Oh she has plans, this one, to be a good teacher and save Marilla's eyesight and follow this bend in the road all the way to the end. Who knows, perhaps she may even come to love Euclid.

 **...**

 _* 'the murmuring of innumerable bees' from Tennyson's Come Down, O Maid. I named each chapter after one line in the poem. It's about a shepherd calling for a maid to come down from her lofty mountain and find love in the valley._


	2. from yonder mountain height

There is a room at Green Gables unlike any other and it belongs to Anne Shirley. She calls it her White Room though the only white thing in it is the ceiling. It wasn't always this way, when she first arrived it was little more than a plain box with a narrow bed, a washstand and a cupboard. It reminded Anne of the punishment cell at the asylum, except that didn't have a window. Her room at Green Gables does, looking out to the east and the rising sun, to the friendly light of Diana's house and a stately cherry. In mid July she wears a brilliant green dotted with ripening shades of red, but Anne always pictures her in the thick white blooms she wore the day they met, which is why she is known as Snow Queen.

Anne's room is always blooming, too. At the entrance is a conch the colour of sunrise that she uses as a door stop -or Neptune's horn when she wants to summon the mermaids. Above a washstand smothered in decoupaged roses there's a mirror surrounded by illustrations of the latest hair designs -Anne is going to wear her hair Up next birthday so updos are practised with passion. On the shelf above her desk is an old blue jug to hold some bit of green. This week it's a two foot branch of willow and beneath its weeping leaves are two frames displaying Anne's first samplers. MOTHER in a chain stitch underlined with eleven french knots, and FATHER in a back stitch with a herringbone border. Her most beloved possession is the cedarwood box that Matthew made. It holds the choicest treasures from her chums, a poem from Miss Stacey, a brass key with no known door, a seed-pearl necklace, and a lock of Diana's black hair.

The box sits on a cloth inset with Swedish lacework from Rachel Lynde. It's said no one else on the Island knows how to make it, not even Mrs Lynde's daughters. They all live out west now. She has ten children living and none dwell closer than Fredericton. Mrs Lynde used to give Anne their postcards and the choicest of these decorate her cupboard door. Every day before she decides what to wear she catches sight of the frontier town of Arden, Grey Bear with a head dress made from fifty eagle feathers, a long boat on the Lachine rapids, a mountain vista in Banff. Sometimes she steps inside and imagines she smells an alpine air instead of an orange set with cloves, or pretends she is Grey Bear's daughter gazing out at the beauty of the creamy knitted counterpane, a pale green rug, and apple-blossom wallpaper. The room is everything a girl might dream of -until she visits Orchard Slope.

Anne's belongings always seem like shabby counterfeits compared to the actual treasures in Diana's room. Matching walnut furniture, lemon damask curtains that go all the way to the floor, a dressing table with a skirt and a stool, and a three foot mirror with wings. Best of all is the voluptuous cream satin quilt presided over by pristine Miss Polly. The doll is more than ten years old yet her bows are still full, her ringlets still curled tight. Only her lips have blurred where Minnie-May tried to feed her pineapple one Christmas.

This afternoon Miss Polly endures another indignity as dress after dress is piled upon the bed and inevitably over her.

'Forget everything I said,' Anne says, plucking a pale pink gown from the armoire and holding it against her. ' _This_ is the one! The organdie is so fine, like the perfume of a blossom bud.' She holds it to her face and inhales. 'Why do you never wear it?'

Diana looks past her reflection to the girl behind her and the dress in her arms, and screws up her nose.

'Because I'd faint before the first dance was through, that's why.' She tosses a silk lily that has spent uncertain moments tucked behind left ear and right into a box of hair adornments, and falls back onto her bed. 'I'm so fat- even the bed-springs know it, so I don't see how it's escaped your notice.'

Anne returns the offending garment to its place of shame in the depths of the closet and kneels at Diana's bedside.

'Diana Barry, you are not fat.'

'I am,' Diana says, smoothing her hands over her petticoat and the great round belly she imagines beneath it. 'It's all your fault. If you hadn't gone off to Queen's I would have had something to do besides eat. It's all they ever do at these ladies circles. If you have a slice of Mrs Sawyer's pie you have to have Mrs Wright's pie, too, and Mrs MacPherson's and Mrs Bell's. I can never manage more than ten stitches together before someone's offering me 'another teeny tiny slice, Diana dear'.'

Anne climbs onto the bed, slipping her arm under Diana's neck and pulling her close.

'And what do all those fine, upstanding women have in common do you think -besides a badly concealed competitive streak?' Diana shrugs, impatiently. 'They all have sons who want a wife!'

Ordinarily Diana would squeal at such a comment. She is considered the belle of Avonlea. Her dark eyed loveliness rivalled only by the bright beauty of Ruby Gillis. The Gillis girls are favourites with the Avonlea boys -and the Carmody boys and the White Sands boys. There are five of them and they all want marrying, and Mrs Gillis isn't too particular about how they manage to snag the necessary husband. Had they been plain their elders would no doubt have prayed over their flirting ways. As it is their sky blue eyes and thick gold hair excuse their every fault.

'We should pity them really,' Josie Pye had said to Diana this morning. 'Since that bank went under yellow hair is the _only_ gold they've got.'

When the Abbey Bank foreclosed last spring Avonlea became a land divided between those who lost their savings and those who didn't. The Barrys are a member of the latter, and while many lads like their chances with Ruby, their mothers are supremely fond of that well brought up and well fixed up Diana. And Diana knows it.

'Not you too,' she says, 'I thought at least you would see something in me besides marriage material.'

'Diana!' Anne exclaims, wrapping herself even tighter about her friend. 'I am the last person who wants to see you married off. If Lysander Galashiels, himself, should ride into this room and vow to have you for his own, I would fight him off with a hat pin before I allowed him take you from me. Though I must admit,' she adds, 'I am surprised to hear you say _marriage material_ as though it was a bad thing. You always said-'

'I might have always said, but that's not all I meant!' Diana snaps, then make a pathetic sigh. 'I guess I'm still in a stew over Tilly. The airs she puts on now that she lives in Charlottetown. I wish you'd seen her traipsing about as though there was a bad smell under her nose. Why, that fallen down wreck on her uncle's property is the biggest eyesore in all Avonlea, but you never heard her say one peep about that. All she could say was how _small_ the blacksmiths looks, how _tired_ the school house looks-

'I thought-'

'So I walked her past the graveyard because who'd have a bad thing to say about that? And she said the headstones looked as though they sprang up with the weeds-'

'Well, you've often-'

'And you know that wildernessy patch by Lynde's Hollow, where our road meets the ones to Newbridge and White Sands? Well, Tilly declared it an evil smelling _swamp_ and said any visitor who saw it would likely turn around and go back. Have you _ever?_ '

'Yes I _have_. You've said the very same.'

'But _I_ live here so _I'm_ allowed to... and I'm not the only one who says so.'

Diana sits up and wraps her arms around her knees, squeezing a discontented sound from her throat. Anne knows Diana's mood isn't really about her summer length sleeves cutting into the tops of her arms, or the big-headed comments of Tilly Boulter. They have not been bosom friends all these years for Anne not to know that. So what is bothering her? She bites down hard on the question and waits for Diana to continue. It takes a while, almost as if Diana is afraid to speak. When Anne hears what comes next she knows why.

'You know I used to think Josie's idea of starting an Improvement Society a nasty, snobbish one. But I have to admit... she has a point.'

Anne clutches Miss Polly in shock. The only point of Josie Pye is to make the afflicted feel worse. Anne still isn't talking to her after she heard her tell Henry Penhallow that all that black Anne Shirley was wearing made her hair look even redder. But Diana was talking to Josie. Diana was _agreeing_ with her. Anne looks down at Polly's porcelain face and is filled with an urge to snap off her prim little nose and say, That's what I think of points, Diana! In the next moment she brings the doll's cold brow to her lips and kisses her sorrowfully.

'Of course Minnie-May says I only want to go because the boys are going. And we all know the boys are going because Josie is insisting that the meetings are convened at her place, which means they'll be plenty to eat-'

'What meetings?' says Anne, untangling one of Polly's ringlets from the crepe at her collar.

'For the _Improvement_ Society. The first one is set for tomorrow, right before the dance. Of course, I wouldn't dream of going without you, and you won't want to go because Fred says Gil will likely come in case it turns out to be interesting.'

Diana's black brows arch in expectation. This is where Anne says, Don't mention that boy's name to me, or, Josie Pye is welcome to him! Instead she stands and goes to the dresser. The lily sits in its box and she picks it up and twirls it.

'As it happens,' she says, carefully, 'Gilbert and I have made up our quarrel so-'

'You _what?_ '

'Last evening, no- the day before last, anyway we're chums now so if you want to go to this Society thing it's fine with me.' Anne turns slowly, her eyes on the lily. 'You might have gone anyway, Di-'

'You and Gil have made it up -are _chums_ -and you never said a word till now! Is this because he gave up Avonlea school for you?'

'Not entirely. After Matthew... well I made up my mind to say something because I thought Matthew would have wanted it. But the opportunity never came till last night, I mean the night before-'

'Goodness, a world where Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe are speaking to each other. I don't know what to say-'

'Don't say anything!' Anne says, more severely than she means. 'Or if you will, say you'll go to this meeting tomorrow.'

'Not without you I won't.'

There's nothing Anne wants to do less. There is so little time left to her these days. The farm at Green Gables is to be rented out in September, and though Mr Barry means well by his offer he's also a businessman and expects fences and gates to be mended, fields to be cleared, before the lease begins. This means a lot of extra work and there is only one hired man to do it. He's the kind that always waits to be told what to do, often times shown, and it's usually up to Anne. Between that and taking over the chores Marilla can't manage; fine work like sewing and heavy work where she is expected to lower her head -the scrubbing, the washing, blacking the stove, tending the garden- Anne's summer has been a frantic one. She hasn't even thought about the paper she wants to take, or her teaching plans, and now Diana wants them to join some weary sounding Improvement Society so they can- what- dig up weeds? She must have been so bored playing housewife with her friends away at Queens. Always saying no to any event Gilbert might come to; leaving Anne be when she needed to grieve.

Anne tucks the lily behind Diana's ear. 'Of course I'll come. Just not to the dance-'

The squeal sounds in earnest now, Diana leaps from the bed and claps her hands together. The lily tumbles from her hair and into the front of her chemise. She is about to pull it out when she laughs, it does look rather nice tucked in there -though Mamma would never allow it.

'Well I can't see Matthew minding,' she says, 'but rules are rules- oh! Here's something to look forward to. Fred said his folks will be away this Christmas and he and Rob mean to have a bonfire on New Year's Eve! Doesn't that sound thrilling-'

'Di, I'll be still in black.'

'But you'd be in half mourning by then, surely- you could wear white, or lilac-'

' _No_. I couldn't.'

Anne's face is a mix of high-minded feeling and utter disbelief. Diana knows she's gone too far.

'Oh- I- no... of course you couldn't, darling. I don't know why I said that.' Secretly Diana can't think of anything worse than being confined to the same two black dresses with that horrible scratchy crepe. It seems the worst way to remember Matthew who always liked to see his girl in pretty gowns with the puffiest sleeves. Diana marches to her closet, pushes dress after dress along the rail. Out come a lawn shirtwaist (too tight) a grey blouse (too dull) two twill skirts (too short) and the organdie gown. 'Are you still planning on dying your cloak?' Anne nods. 'Then do me a tiny favour and dye these too-'

'Di- no! They're too lovely-'

'And too small. Let's face it, darling,' Diana says, placing her hand on her flaring hip, 'I am never going to fit them again and I hate to think of you wearing the same thing over and over. You know Matthew wouldn't have liked it.'

'Whoever heard of black organdie?'

'Whoever heard of a girl who topped the Island in the Entrance exam, qualified a first class teacher in one year, won the Avery scholarship -and turned it down!'

'I suppose when you put it like that,' Anne says, holding the sheer pink frills against her cheek.

When she returns to Green Gables an hour later the store bought finery of Diana's room has lost its allure, but she cannot stop touching the organdie gown. Anne has an old fashioned dress made of the stuff, if not as fine. It was worn for her recital at the White Sands Hotel and again for Ruby's sixteenth, and is tucked away in the garret with all her other gauzy things. Convention has it that a grieving daughter mustn't attend any parties or sprees for a year. And Anne has it in her head that if she abides by that dictum, wears black all year long, Matthew will know, and Marilla and all Avonlea, that he was like a father to her and that she loved him as one.

Here in her White Room, however, there is no harm in trying on Diana's dress -just to see if it needs taking in and -oh! So this is what it feels like to wear pink, as though she is enfolded in the petals of a tea rose. She scrapes back her hair, pulls a black scarf from the its hook by the mirror, winds it once about her head and lets the long ends fall like ebony tresses around her shoulders.

Beautiful.

When the door sounds below she hurriedly tackles the tiny buttons down her front and gives up after three. There are not many people it could be at four o'clock on a Sunday, everyone she knows will be preparing afternoon tea or waiting for it. The only person who would knock that loud would be Martin. He'll wake Marilla from her nap in a minute. It doesn't seem to matter how many times she tells him the kitchen door is always open he unfailingly comes to the front like a fellow coming to court.

'Martin, you know you can come round the back-' she says, swinging the door wide and tugging the scarf from her head. 'Oh... hello Gilbert. I thought you were the hired man.'

'Didn't realise Green Gables had a servants entrance,' says Gilbert, taking in the unbuttoned collar, the bare feet, in the time it takes him to remove his cap. He puts it on again. 'I've come at a bad time, you're expecting company.'

'No, I- oh, this?' Anne says, looking down at her dress and her toes peeping out beneath it -thank goodness the scarf is in her hand and not in her hair. 'I was just trying it on for size,' she says, attempting nonchalance.

Aside from the way the bodice gapes at her chest it fits her perfectly. Not that he could say that, though it might have been better than what did come out of his mouth.

'There's something not quite right about it-'

'If you mean why am I not wearing _black,_ ' Anne retorts.

The scarf is dropped and her chin juts out in the same way a filly's ears flatten before she bucks. Gilbert backs away slowly.

'No- that's not it- forget what I said. I can't stay, tea's almost ready, I just came to give you this,' he says, digging into his pocket and dropping a folded piece of paper into her hand. 'It's a recipe or a remedy or something, Ma said you were asking last week.' It's his turn to try for nonchalant but he isn't half as successful and he knows it. 'You coming to the meeting tomorrow?' he asks from the bottom step, and when she nods he says, 'Good, I'll see you there, then.'

Anne watches him sprint up the drive and take the gate in a single leap. She is reading the recipe when Martin appears. It's for dandelion beer and it looks like he's copied it out himself.

'What was that you said to the Blythe boy to make him run like that?' Martin asks her, unlacing his boots.

'I've no idea,' Anne says.

 **...**

 _* Josie's comment about Anne's red hair from chapter 37 in Anne of Green Gables_


	3. What pleasure lives in height and cold

The next morning Anne has the hot rolls wrapped in a teacloth and the eggs all boiled before Martin comes knocking at five. This time she is ready for him, and sits on the porch chewing her pencil and reading a course prospectus from Redmond University by the light of an apricot sun. They set off for the barn together but Anne leaves the last milker to him, jogging back to wash up and make tea in time for his arrival.

Marilla appears at seven. She'd been up at three with head pain, but looks rested after her lie-in and even takes a second egg. Anne is glad, and not only for Marilla's sake. Monday is washing day and an endless drudge when done alone. Every article has to be soaked, boiled, scrubbed, rinsed, blued, rinsed again, wrung out and hung out. At least they have a mangle. At the asylum they were made to wring everything out by hand. To save them ruining their boots they worked in bare feet. By the end of the day Anne's hands were so sore she could barely tie her laces.

Fortunately there is only so much laundry two females can make. It is finished by two and an obliging wind sends grass-scented gusts through the last of the pillowcases, when Marilla calls Anne in for tea and a slice of nut cake with spiced pink icing.

'What on earth have you got this time?' she says, frowning at the yellow posy in Anne's hands.

The wide smile Anne wears shrinks noticeably. 'Marilla, they're dandelions.'

'Any fool can see that,' says Marilla, smiling and shaking her head. 'Why do you have so many, we're not so poor that we have to display weeds, surely.'

'Oh, these are more than weeds. According to Dr Lavendar dandelions are very good for the eyes-'

Marilla rolls hers and clicks her tongue. 'How can you read that nonsense, a smart girl like you. That Lavendar is no more a doctor than I am.'

Dr Lavendar has a popular column in the Charlottetown Echo which doles out advice on everything from how to cure warts to how to cure a broken heart. Anne has written to him twice asking for information on Marilla's eye condition. He still hasn't replied, but last week there was a big piece on the efficacy of dandelions. Boiling up the flower-heads and leaves makes an excellent liver tonic, but the real power, he claimed, was in the roots. Drink enough and it will replace whatever you're missing: teeth, hair, potency, eyesight... It was as if Dr Lavendar had answered her question especially! Anne's next problem was discovering a recipe, which meant giving up a free afternoon for one with the good women at the Church Mission. Most sniffed at the idea of eating on weeds, and the rest only knew of the tea. It was said to be an excellent diuretic, bring out the gold in fair hair, and cure rheumatism. Not one had any knowledge of how to use the root, however. They were _very_ firm on that point.

It wasn't until Anne was sweeping the hall at the end of the meeting that Rowena Blythe approached her. She is Gilbert's mother, though anyone who saw them would have known that. They both shared the same 'oak in autumn' look of golden skin, hazel eyes and dark brown hair. Hereafter everyone said he took after his father, who was the tall, broad and handsome sort, but Anne thought the son's similarities to his mother didn't end there. Gilbert's ears, for example, and his left ear particularly, had the slightest fold at the helix just like Mrs Blythe, and his neck was lean and supple with a dip at his nape like hers. Anne had spent a lot of time looking at the back of Gilbert's head. He was in all of her classes at Queens and Bs always sat near the front. She would find herself staring at his close cropped curls and wonder... Which part of her body took after her mother, and which part her father?

Gilbert definitely had his father's smile. Rowena's was smaller, though no less merry. She liked Anne Shirley. There weren't many girls who were bold enough to put her son in his place. She had an idea that he might have squandered his smarts if it hadn't been for this curious orphan child, and because of this felt an unexpressed sense of gratitude toward her. 'Now what were you after a root recipe for?' she asked.

Anne was used to the teasing tone. She had a habit of blurting out peculiar pronouncements at the strangest times. When most people talk to her they are always expecting to be amazed and Anne has found the best way to counter this is to give a straight answer. 'For Marilla.'

 _Marilla_. Things must have come to a pretty pass if Marilla Cuthbert was sending her girl out to seek recipes for beer! Rowena took the broom from Anne's hands, shepherded her to the steps by the stage, and asked her to sit. There were some careful questions next: how was Marilla since her brother passed? Were they managing alright with the hired man? Would they have enough to harvest -John noted there'd already been a score of haloes round moon and sun, and the calves had all been born with thicker coats than usual, all signs they were in for a long, harsh winter.

'That's very interesting, Mrs Blythe -poetical too,' Anne couldn't help but add, for she loved the haloed moon. 'But I don't know how this has any bearing on dandelion roots. I am wanting to make a tonic. You see, Dr Lavendar says-'

'Oh, Doctor Lavendar, well why didn't you say!' Rowena said, her gold eyes like rising suns where her cheeks pushed into them.

Old folk. There was no way of knowing what would please some and offend others. Rowena's opinion of the good doctor was the very opposite of Marilla's.

'You won't get me taking one drop of a concoction that charlatan lies about,' Marilla says, cutting another slice of nut cake and dropping it onto Anne's plate. The girl wants fattening up; if anyone needs a tonic it's her.

Anne wisely says no more. She nibbles her cake until Marilla asks what course she's set on and promptly flies into debate with herself about how to decide between Classics or Literature, German or Latin, Augustan Poetry or The History of Art. The latter isn't likely, it requires the purchase of an enormous tome filled with hand-coloured plates of Raphaels and Leonardos and Donatellos and therefore costs a small fortune. Anne doesn't want Marilla knowing that.

'Then again Miss Stacey did mention there is an awful lot of geometry in the Art History paper. Geometry just can't help ruining things. I think I'll write to her after I tackle the ironing -ohhh... I can't. I have to go to the meeting.'

The grey eyed gaze that had floated among the dandelion clocks is cast down at the tablecloth as she tells Marilla about Josie's plan for an Improvement Society; how Diana is wild for the idea. Anne expects the words Stuff and Nonsense to come from Marilla at any moment, and half hopes she commands her not to go. Marilla has never been one for young folk galavanting about when they had better be at home minding their manners and doing their chores. But wouldn't you know it, she is tickled by the notion.

'It's time you lot set about doing something useful, instead of preening for all those dances and vying over who walks home with whom-'

'But our dances are for a good cause, and we always charge ten cents not five the way they do in Newbridge, so we can give half the profits to the Church Mission.'

'And who do you think is doling out those ten cent bits? No, a good lot of hard work in plain clothes would be the making of most of you. Who did you say would be attending?'

Anne lists those she expected to be there ending with Gilbert Blythe. Marilla, who smirked as she heard the former names, thinking how satisfying it would be to see Pye, Sloane and Andrews girls in overalls instead of so many flounces, breaks out in a genuine grin when she hears John's boy will be there.

'You'll get things done if he takes part. You young folks tend to listen to him. Are you certain, Anne? Martin says the Blythes let their hired man go. Gilbert'll be mighty busy right now.'

'Very certain. He asked if I was going and said he'd see me there.'

' _See_ you there. You mean to to tell me he's escorting you?'

'No? _No!_ That wasn't what he meant at all...'

Was it? _Was it?_

Marilla thinks so. Though times have changed since she was Anne's age, when the only way to talk to a young man without a chaperone was by fluttering your fan. Still it seemed to explain some strange behaviour, like why Gilbert came round last evening looking like a startled colt and dashing off like one.

At first the idea seems too brash, too assuming. How typical, Anne broods, yanking the sheets from the line, thinking he could work his magic on her they way he does everyone else. All he has to do is wink and another girl falls under his spell; saving him the best spot at the picnic, waiting for him at the Station when they came home from Queen's on weekends. Anne has seen it all and likes it not. But somewhere between changing into her other black dress and fixing her hair she thinks better of him. Going by Diana's reaction all Avonlea will be talking about the fact that Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe were, well, _talking._ Better to go to the meeting together and have it out of the way, than turn up alone and have everyone's eyes darting between her and Gilbert waiting to see what happens.

By a quarter to six Anne has finally wrestled her thick hair into a seven strand braid and hovers in the front parlour. She's planned her departure carefully. The moment she sees him approach she's going to tiptoe out of the house, call out her goodbyes, and stroll to the gate as though she'd scarcely given a thought to whether Gilbert came or not. But at quarter past Gilbert's arrival is all she can think of. Where _is_ he? Perhaps Marilla is right and he is delayed by last minute chores. The cows would need bringing in for the evening milking. Likely one of them has the temperament of Dolly and refuses to go in for the night. That cow could try a saint -if Anne believed in saints. Then again if she believes in angels, why not saints? They used to be people, after all. It wasn't their fault the papists built statues to them, nor the papists fault for having a love of sculpture. Anne thinks about the text for Art History; wonders if there are any second hand copies around. Maybe it's in the library in Charlottetown. But that means getting by the head librarian. He isn't likely to allow a sixteen year old female to take out a book with nudes in it. He wouldn't even let her read Ibsen! It was a play about a Doll's House. What could be shocking about that?

'Anne, what are you doing?'

'Oh, good evening, Gilbert. I'm thinking about the word playwright. Don't you think it's strange that it's wright and not write? Is there something intrinsically different between an author of a play and an author of a book, do you think? Perhaps I'll write one, a play that is, and find out. Maybe it's to do with needing a stage and costumes, you have to be good with your hands to make those-'

'I mean what are you doing in that tree, I thought you were coming to the meeting?'

The meeting! Diana! _Gilbert._ Anne slips down from the low branch of an ancient conifer that grows at the corner of the lane and Newbridge road.

'I was waiting for you, but as it appears that I have missed the meeting and let down Diana I shall bid you goodnight.' She turns sharply and almost slips as her worn boot pivots in old pine needles. His hand goes to her elbow. 'It's quite alright,' she says, 'I don't require an escort.'

'Did you think I was coming for you? I would have, it just never occurred that you'd want me to. I only wish I'd thought of it. The first half of the meeting was taken up with questions about how I got you to forgive me. You have still forgiven me, I suppose?'

Anne laughs. She can't help it. He looks like a fox this time, his gold eyes staring, waiting, wondering if he should stand his ground or run. 'Of course I've still forgiven you,' she says, linking arms and pulling him in the direction of the gate. 'But you should know I find it hard to be friends with those who expect the worst of me-'

'I don't do that.'

'Then why ask if I still forgive you? Do you really think I would withhold my friendship because of a misunderstanding?'

'I guess I don't know you so well as I thought.'

'How could you when we have five years worth of conversations to catch up on?'

'Takes more than talk to know a person.'

Anne starts fussing over the gate latch. She isn't used to people saying something she might say, usually she's defending her corner or trying to make others see the world the way she sees it. The only reply she can manage is a humble, 'That's true.'

It must be a reasonable response because ten minutes later they are still at the gate while Gilbert recounts the inaugeral meeting of the Avonlea Village Improvement Society, otherwise known as AVIS.

'It's a good name,' Anne says, 'I know because a delicious, shivery thrill went all the way through me as you said it. Do you ever have those?' Gilbert has not. He also seems to have forgotten how to close his mouth. 'AVIS, like a bird flying upon the highest ideals of goodness and service, like a sky rocket, a butterfly...' Anne lists at least ten more things that can span the skies, affording Gilbert an opportunity to locate his voice.

'A rocket maybe, but a bird of peace never. There are already ructions and AVIS isn't even two hours old. Guess who was voted president?'

'You obviously. Everyone always chooses you.'

'Me? No. I wouldn't have minded, but I'll be spending most of my time in White Sands, I couldn't give it the time it would need.'

Anne presses her lips together, feels small inside. There she was looking for reasons not to join while Gilbert thought it a worthy enterprise. 'I'm very grateful, in case you think I'm not, about you taking the White Sands school so I can stay in Avonlea with Marilla.'

'Oh, I know,' Gilbert says, breezily, 'now keep guessing.'

'I know who it _should_ be, but as to who it actually is, hmm... Charlie? Rob? Fred? Moody? Well _who_ then?'

'Josie.'

'Josie!' Anne's response isn't subtle nor the blush that follows when she realises how sharp she sounds. 'Well it _was_ her idea... Still- I can't believe she won so many votes.'

No one can. There was an outcry from all the boys who swore they would never vote for a girl, and from most of the girls who swore they would never vote for a Pye. They all pointed at Gertie, who is Josie's younger sister and in charge of counting the ballots. Then Fred Wright said he would rather take orders from Aunt Atossa than a girl, to which Diana countered that Aunt Atossa was her Aunt too, by marriage once removed, and what did he mean by that exactly, and who did he think he was?

Gilbert doesn't tell Anne any of this, it would sound too much like gossip and Gilbert loathes gossip. He is also as loyal to Fred as Anne is to Diana and suspects if he mentions their disagreement he will be called to defend his chum, and that cannot end well. Anne hears all about it the next afternoon when she goes to Orchard Slope. She is expecting a certain coolness after missing the meeting, but Diana is too fired up for that.

'The nerve of them, Anne! They say Josie isn't fit to lead when it was her idea in the first place. Who could _be_ more fit, I ask you? So we told the boys we refused to dance with them until they recognised Josie as the rightful president and do you know what they did? They quit! They think we'll come crawling back because girls don't know the first thing about how to make improvements. Oh, they're happy to eat our pies and hold our hands but as far as they're concerned that's all we're good for. That Fred Wright, I'll show him. They don't want us? Fine. From now on AVIS is _girls_ only. We don't talk to boys, we don't look at boys, and we certainly don't cook for boys. In fact the only thing I expect them to eat is their words. Mark this, Anne Shirley,' says Diana, with pink cheeked conviction. 'The girls are going to war!'

 **...**

 _* 'blued' refers to the practice of blueing -dunking whites into a blue chemical solution to stop cleaning agents turning fabric yellow._

 _* In my other stories I have always called Mrs Blythe, Sarah, but I felt like a change and went with Rowena._

 _* Roots are commonly used to make alcohol_

 _* Papists are Roman Catholics_

 _* Avis is latin for bird_

 _* 'Five years worth of conversations to catch up on,' from chapter 38 Anne of Green Gables_


	4. the splendour of the hills

On the sixth day of August the members of AVIS -or as Josie Pye calls them, 'her Avettes'- move, second and forward their very first motion. It's all managed with perfect decorum in the Pye's front parlour, marred only by the frantic hand of Emma White who recorded the minutes. Now anyone who can make out her writing will discover that on 4:14 pm at Highfields on Carmody Road it was decreed that all Avettes must wear matching aprons of bleached white calico with a five inch hem of lace, by a vote of nine to one. After this that one lone voter makes a groan to match the occasion, and retreats to the Pye's finely appointed porch.

Josie observes this gleefully and once the door is closed she summons the other girls with a quick toss of her head. 'Trust Anne Shirley to vote against lace. I really shouldn't say this but I'm sure she'd prefer it if we all wore overalls made of spiderwebs and maudlin verse.'

'I really shouldn't say this' is often tacked onto whatever pronouncement Josie makes with the unfailing result of encouraging the listener to blurt out their own uncharitable remark. It's this rather than Josie's wealth or position that maintains her popularity. Few can deny themselves the pleasure of hearing someone else voice the same mean thought they'd had themselves. Everyone leaves her company with either a niggling conscience or the suspicion that they will be slandered next.

'Why it smacks of pride' says Em, zealous with the honour of being appointed AVIS secretary. 'The only reason Anne would vote down lace is because she doesn't have the knack for it.'

'She'll be voting down bleach next,' says Josie. 'Do you know when her washing was first seen hanging at Green Gables last Monday? _Ten o'clock!_ '

Carrie Sloane shakes her head as though it weighed a hundred pounds. No one conveys that mix of pity and judgment like a Sloane. 'No self-respecting housewife would dare to have her first load out any later than eight-'

'Eight? Mother would die a death if we didn't have all our bedclothes steeped, wrung and strung by _six_. You have to wonder at Marilla Cuthbert, who is supposed to be a model of good housekeeping-' Josie pauses, taking in the pursed lips and averted eyes of her audience. It's all very well to talk about that square peg Anne Shirley but possibly not a grown-up, and especially not Miss Cuthbert. 'Of course, she _has_ been under a strain lately,' she finishes smoothly.

'Perhaps our next motion could be to help Green Gables with their laundry?' says Minette in sensible Andrews fashion.

Diana sniffs loudly and sidles past the group. 'Or perhaps Josie can provide a demonstration on how to do it the Pye way.'

Josie blinks rapidly. 'The Pye way?'

'Why, first thing Monday morning you hang out the sheets from the linen closet, don't you, Josie? After Tilly stayed with you she happened to mention that your first load of washing was dry in a wink and smelled... of _mothballs!_ '

She attempts a triumphant smile and almost succeeds; her skirt-swishing exit blighted by the thought that she hasn't bested Josie so much as stooped to her level.

'I didn't expect to see you,' says Anne, making space for her on the porch swing.

It's on the tip of Diana's tongue to tell all, but she doesn't. What good would it do? Anne would either burst into the parlour and give Josie what for, or quit like the boys. Diana fumes inwardly, more for the boys' sake than for Anne's. She has a sneaking suspicion that they would not have spent an hour debating apron designs if Fred Wright was here.

'Where else should I be? Come on, it's time for some vigorous ambulation,' Diana says, pronouncing it vy-gorous. 'They're about to bring the cakes out and I'm liable to scoff the lot.'

'Vigorous ambulation?' says Anne, looking sidelong at her friend.

She had read that exact phrase in yesterday's paper. The entire column in Ask Dr Lavendar was dedicated to slimming and fasting. Something about lemons, Anne hadn't read too closely, after she realised it had no bearing on eyesight she lost interest. The dandelion beer, however, Anne tends with passion. She followed Mrs Blythe's recipe to the letter. Well they were Gilbert's letters, really. She had to admit he had a very good penmanship, though it occurred to her that his lengthier curlicues were probably meant as a tease. The tail of the y in brewer's yeast seemed to go down half the page. That ingredient proved troublesome. Anne had already caused a minor sensation with her simple request for root recipes, asking the Avonlea populace for brewer's yeast would bring a visit from the chairwoman of the Temperance Society. Rather than risk that Anne decided that a dollop from Marilla's sour dough culture was sure to bring the same result, and after mixing everything together visits the cellar frequently. Slipping her hands over mismatched bottles, waiting for her batch to bubble, and hopefully, wonderfully, magically curing Marilla's eyesight for good.

'Well, I'm sure I don't know where I am, but I'm certain I know where _you_ are,' says Diana, her dark eyes gazing cloudwards to castles therein.

They have passed the borders of Avonlea to the back fields that run to Upper Carmody Road. A dappled beech wood had left them speechless and the steep hill that followed, breathless. It's a good half hour since they have uttered much more than a beauty-loving sigh. They stop in a cool stand of pines. Diana leans against the trunk of a black spruce and releases a button at her neck. Anne blushes. She had been dreaming of patenting her tonic to national acclaim and making so much money she could buy back the lease from Mr Barry, a Swiss music box for Diana, and a lifetime at Redmond for herself with nothing to do but live inside books for years and years and years...

'I was thinking how lucky I am that I won't be leaving after all. If I was going to Redmond I would only have a few short weeks to savour all this loveliness. Mmmm, smell it, Diana, you can taste the sticky spruciness in your mouth. Remember when we would climb for chews in the school lunch hour? When I am a teacher I plan to give the children lots of time outdoors, especially if they discover a particularly good tree. Pulling a child away from a good resin nugget is akin to pulling a grown man away from a gold one -no one with an ounce of imagination would ever attempt to do so.'

'All I can think of is chewing now. I'm that hungry I could just about climb this tree and hunt for some.'

'What's stopping us, there's no one about. In fact I've half an idea we might be lost.'

Diana feels a cold doubt slither into her growling stomach. She had supposed Anne knew the way, she was always off somewhere. Perhaps climbing trees wasn't such a childish idea after all. If they were able to look over a portion of the canopy they may be able to get their bearings. She begins unbuttoning her collar, the little pearls slipping from their holes with a satisfying pop.

'Well, if have going to climb trees I'm not ruining my new poplin into the bargain. Ten hours these sleeves cost me,' she says, slipping her arms from broderie anglais, 'and as you say there's no one about.' Her pale green dress is neatly folded and placed on a bed of pine needles with her chic straw hat on top. 'Come on,' she says, unlacing a boot and peeling off her left stocking. 'Last one to the top has to marry Billy Andrews!'

Anne watches Diana dig her white toes into a foothold, hovering under her like a mother with her child. Diana Barry hasn't climbed a tree since she was thirteen. She settles into a likely limb and waves down victoriously, imagining herself twenty feet up when really the soles of her feet almost connect with Anne's head. Only then does Anne begin to undress, her black lawn is so overworn it slips over her head without the need to loosen fastenings. Her boots are another matter, they are the old fashioned kind and lace halfway up her calf. Never mind, she doesn't need to go shoeless to climb trees, and proves it by running at the trunk and leaping at the last so that she can grasp the lowest branch and swing herself upward. She enjoys the view for a good minute before Diana reaches her. Anne planned to greet her with, Good afternoon, Mrs Andrews. Instead her chum is beckoned with the familiar, 'Oh Diana- Diana- Diana!'

'What Anne, are you stuck?'

'There!'

Diana follows Anne's finger and peers beyond the edge of the pine forest. In the furthest corner of the plateau is a garden. Not a wild planting growing in some harmonious composition, but a real garden with a high mossy wall, the remnants of a gate, and a cobblestone path that wound itself through emerald grasses whose sheeny leaves showed silver with the wind. Nodding throughout were fat bowls of poppy heads in peaches, golds and reds, and clusters of cornflowers in starbursts of blue.

'Look at the roses!' Anne says, pointing to a hedge of what would have been standards, writhing in coils of prickles and leaves.

The flowers are few but each one is extraordinary. It seems to Anne as if they concentrated all their beauty and perfume -yes, even up here she can smell them- into those peerless blooms.

'They must be as big a bread and butter plates!' Diana exclaims.

She releases Anne's hand having only been slightly aware she had taken it, and looks for a route that will lead her to ground. In the murk of the forest it doesn't seem possible that what they have seen is real. They share a squeal of excitement. Anne tugs Diana's arm impatiently, Diana ignores her and puts on her shoes. Once she passes the garden wall they are off again, as are Anne's, and the girls run bare legged through knee high grasses, their white petticoats collecting petals and seed heads, their hands collecting the choicest blooms.

Diana makes a garland from poppies, her cheek and lip as scarlet as the bloom that tops her wreath. Anne weaves hers from cornflowers, and it circles her head like a whole summer's day; the lilac tones of dawn giving way to coolest cobalt, dulcet purples and deepest indigo night. Once adorned their expressions become more solemn, their movements more precise. Anne curtsies to Diana, Diana curtsies back and they dance a simple two step, one hand at the other's shoulder, their hems held up and out. Round and round they go; the close walled garden, the high fine air, it practically demands it from them. Words sound next, a fifth reader rhyme that comes out as a chant, urging them on and on faster and faster till their heads meet and their voices merge as one.

'He clasps the crag with crooked hands

Close to the sun in lonely lands

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt... he falls!'

And they do, into deep sweet grass and Anne hugs herself and laughs, thinking without words that this really is the life and how blessed she is to live in a land where she doesn't need to study books in order to live in one. It was all around her in the air of salt and spruce and in the velvety folds of old roses, their golden hearts like fraying suns.

Diana leans on her arm and admires her friend, who blooms as the flowers do. She wants to say, I love you, Anne, truly with all of my heart, and lies back on the grass and stares at pinkening clouds. When she does speak her words of love don't come out the way she wants, but they mean the same. 'I'm sorry about the aprons, Anne -voting for them I mean. It seemed a fun idea at the time but now it just looks vain and foolish. What will the boys say when they hear that we spent the meeting arguing over the merits of twill?'

Anne plucks a stem of timothy from Diana's wreath and sucks on it. 'I wouldn't worry about them. Oh they'll laugh at first, but it won't take long till they warm to the idea and steal it for themselves-'

'Anne Shirley, you won't make me feel better by convincing me that the boys will take to wearing aprons-'

'With _ten_ inches of lace!'

Diana huffs. 'That Josie Pye. Ever since she won a first at the Charlottetown Exhibition last year she's been forever looking for opportunities to crow about her lacework.'

'But Di,' Anne says, 'She didn't just win the _Girls_ section or, heaven forbid, the _Juniors_ , she won the-'

'Ladies Open!' she and Diana burst out together and laugh again till Anne's ears feel wet and Diana is clutching her grumbling belly.

'Oh Anne, what have we got ourselves into, at the beck and call of Josie Pye?'

'No more talk of Josie, I don't want to hear the merest whisper of her name. Not here. Not in Eden.'

Diana rolls onto her stomach and cradles her face in her hands. 'What do you suppose this place is... someone must have lived here once. It can't be more than a mile from home yet I've never heard tell of it.'

'It's our place, Diana,' Anne replies easily, then sits up suddenly and clasps her hands under her chin. 'Oh! It _is_ our place. Our very own. Let's- we must come back here- the two of us and make it ours properly, with a fire and a feast and a ceremony-'

'You mean like midsummer? We could invite Jane, too, and Ruby, it could be like old times... only no Elaine!' she says, giggling.

'No Jane or Ruby either. Unless you really must. I want for this to be _our_ place, yours and mine alone- oh no!' Anne says, pulling up onto her knees. 'Those bells- that's not the Hall surely-'

Diana holds her hand out to silence Anne and leans her ear to the wind. In the next instant the bell peels thrice, summoning all Avonlea. 'Prayer Meeting! No, it couldn't be seven- Mother will be furious... Oh mercy, where's my other shoe!'

Hands are grasped in earnest as they race down hillside then across Levi Boulter's back field. The half burned house that lies there mocking them with pecked out windowless eyes.

'What will you tell Marilla?' Diana asks between gasps, her head between her knees, her hat in her hand.

'One good thing about getting into scrapes is that it's always expected of me. I doubt she'll mind half as much as your mother will.'

'To miss supper is one thing-' Diana mutters, 'but Prayer Meeting. I won't be allowed outdoors for a week!'

'Then come to me by candlelight,' Anne says, referring to the coded messages they send each other from their bedroom windows. 'Just promise you'll never tell a soul about the garden.'

Diana shakes her head and smooths down her pale green dress. One of her buttons has popped off and so has she, over the little log bridge to Orchard Slope.

'Fare thee well, Sweet Sister!' Anne calls after her, turning away with the uneasy feeling she has left her dearest friend to battle the foe alone.

 **...**

 _* in my other stories the Pye residence is called Palisades. Here I've called it Highfields._

 _* about laundry. In certain 19th century households the woman who got her first load of washing out the fastest was held in high esteem. The Pye's hanging out their clean, dry linen in order to make it appear they are first was inspired by a cool little book called, 'Pioneer Women of the Outback and Bush'._

 _* sour dough culture is made from fermented flour and water and used as the raising agent in sour dough bread._

 _* Elaine refers to ch 28 in Anne of Green Gables where Anne and her friends re enacted Elaine's deathscene in Tennyson's Idylls of the King and Anne almost drowned._

 _* poem is The Eagle by Tennyson_


	5. But cease to move so near the Heavens

The following week a tall and tawny woman opens the door to a white faced girl. 'Why Anne, what a nice surprise. Won't you come in?'

Anne nods at Mrs Blythe and steps inside, her cast down eyes following the striped rug that runs down the length of the hall. The Blythe place is too small to earn it any other name, but it has a pleasing symmetry with public spaces on one side and private on the other. First on the left is the parlour where Mrs Blythe hosts the Sewing Circle and the Quilting Bee on alternate Thursdays, and something known as Ladies Meet once a month. Mrs Barry attended once, Mrs Lynde oftener, and the new brides of Avonlea regularly. It is strictly married women only and sounds to Anne both intriguing and forbidden -though Mrs Lynde would hardly attend if it was.

Anne is lead past the door to that room and those of the bedrooms opposite, to a closed porch off the kitchen where Mrs Blythe receives everyday company. A view of the orchard can be glimpsed between the cherry coloured geraniums that huddle along the windowsill. The wall that isn't windows is taken up by a day-bed adorned with a basket of linen, a cat, cushions and the cloud-like beginnings of an Arran sweater. Next to this is a turquoise rocker, used by John in the evening and Rowena during the day. On the far wall squats a pot bellied stove and a copper kettle simmering companionably.

'Missy, off!' says Rowena, causing her guest to leap up from the day-bed and an oversized tabby to plop to the floor. 'Oh Anne, I meant the cat not you. Now how can I help? I assume that's why you're here- unless... it wasn't Gilbert you were wanting, was it? He's in the fields with John-'

'N-no, Mrs Blythe, it's you I wanted to see,' says Anne. She reaches into the basket she is holding and brings out a bottle of what looks like fizzing gold. 'I was hoping you could explain this-'

'It appears to be that tonic you were after, am I right so far?' says Mrs Blythe in her 'talking to little children' voice; the girl looks as though she's about to cry.

Anne nods and tries to sniff discreetly. 'It was supposed to be, Mrs Blythe, but it's not quite right and I thought... I thought you might look over the recipe and see where I've gone wrong. I believe Gilbert wrote it and I want to be sure he didn't... _omit_ anything.'

'Omit anything?' That boy! If he's played a prank on her. Rowena takes the paper and reads over it. 'You say Gil wrote this? What's with the all these loopy letters, no wonder you had trouble making it out.'

'No,' Anne says, firmly. 'I could read it well enough, I just want to be sure I had the recipe right.'

'Looks right to me, turned out all right too by the look of that bottle. I'm not sure how else to help you, Anne.'

The sniff turns into a sob, Anne catches her breath willing herself to stop, but she can't. She's going to burst into tears right here in the Blythe's back sitting room and there's nothing she can do about it.

'Just let it out and have a good cry,' says Mrs Blythe with the sort of patient authority often called for at Ladies Meet. Though she usually knew what ailed those girls, this one made no sense at all.

'I-I'm sorry Mrs Blythe, Marilla always tells me not to hope so hard for things that won't come true-'

'Marilla Cuthbert is as wise as they come.'

This only made Anne cry harder. 'I poisoned her-' she utters between sobs, 'I poisoned Marilla-'

Mrs Gillis would have fainted at such a confession. Mrs Barry would have run for the constabulary and the doctor in that order. But these women lack experience in one key quarter: a knowledge of boys. If Mrs Blythe's hadn't come running in once a week with a cut or a break, he was dragging in another boy who did. Or disappearing before sun up, or staying out all night. Rowena's threshold for possible disasters grew with her son, as did her powers of observation. Anne was hatless which certainly spoke of distraction, but there were a number of houses she might have run to if Marilla was truly in danger. More than likely the girl has had a fright and it has something to do with that dandelion beer.

Rowena settles into her rocker and pats Anne's hand. 'Start at the beginning, child, I'm not going anywhere.' Nothing soothes an orphan so much as a promise to stay and Anne finds she can relay her troubles quickly and without further fuss. There is only one small hiccup, one Marilla has the talent for. And that's suppressing the laugh that wells up whenever Anne confesses. 'Oh Anne, forgive me. I know you meant well, but you mean to tell me you put baker's yeast in the tonic?'

'Not baker's yeast, exactly, sour dough starter -Marilla's is so potent and her bread so bubbly and light I thought-' Anne pauses, knowing there's no point in continuing until Mrs Blythe's chuckle has subsided.

'Lord love you,' she says at last, wiping tears from her crinkled up eyes. 'That tonic must have tasted revolting!'

'Marilla said it was as if I had scooped up a spoonful of mildew and fed it to her,' Anne says, dolefully.

'You can't blame me for that, now. The recipe called for brewer's yeast-'

'And where am I supposed to find such a thing?'

'No further than your backyard I would have thought. It blooms all over potatoes and fruit -Silas Cole swears by his own beard.' They both shudder and share a guilty smile. Silas' beard is a good foot long, and generally strewn with bread crumbs, tobacco leaf and sticky dribbles of jam. 'Not that any self respecting young woman would want to get within fifty feet of _that_ ,' says Rowena. She leaves the rocker and wipes her hands on her apron. 'Boys are due in a minute. Will you to stay to tea, I could put together an anti-emetic for Marilla, help settle her stomach?'

'Tea yes, but I doubt Marilla would accept silver spoons of milk and honey from me at the moment.'

She doesn't add that Marilla chased her out of the kitchen and bid her not to show her face till supper. Anne would have gone to Orchard Slope but Diana is still in disgrace for shaming her mother by missing Prayer Meeting last week. Mrs Barry thought it a fitting punishment to have her wayward daughter make up and sew all ten aprons for the Avettes. Last Saturday Anne eagerly delivered her length of calico only to be told to hurry back home as Marilla no doubt had a suitable punishment waiting for her. Anne wished Marilla was angry. Instead she lay in her darkened room as her head and her eyes roiled with pain. Two days later she was no better and after a solitary morning with the laundry Anne decided it was time to test her miracle cure. She slipped a spoonful of dandelion tonic into a cup of tea. One sip was all it took. Marilla sat bolt upright and vomited into her chamber pot.

With the habit that comes of a five year old grudge Anne immediately thought of Gilbert. This must be his doing! The offending bottle was still in her hand and she set off at a pace, her feet marching in time to the words, That boy! That boy! She had forgotten how comforting it was to be angry with him and was unwilling to let go her assumption till she'd got as far as the pine at the end of the lane. Because it wasn't Gilbert, couldn't be. Even when they were best enemies he was only teasing, never cruel. And they were chums now, weren't they? Well, they spent part of every evening together. Anne has found herself another habit, which is checking to see if Martin had shut the gate around about the same time that Gilbert... actually, why was Gilbert there? He always seemed to find himself half way up the lane to Green Gables at seven o'clock each night. Well this time Anne Shirley would barge in on him and see how he liked it!

Rowena Blythe is equally curious as she observes Gilbert stride through the orchard. She still isn't used to her boy looking down when he talks with his father, and is just as surprised by his friendship with Anne. All Avonlea assume he and Luella Gillis' youngest will make a match of it one day and that suits Rowena just fine. Better Christmas with lively Lu than unyielding Ebba Barry. Let the Andrews boys make eyes at Diana, Ruby would do for her son. At least she used to think so. Gil has known Ruby all his life but it isn't her house he heads to after supper. All the mothers on Newbridge Road noticed that.

She tarries at the back door while Anne admires the geraniums, watching her son peel off his shirt and dip his head into the water butt. John kicks off his boots, ducks into the porch to grab the kettle, and greets young Anne with a wink. Then, with what Anne concludes is a frequent occurrence, he pours hot water into a tin bath set into a table. Gilbert adds the cold and soaps himself from neck to waist -when he isn't flinging suds at his father. He is dodging return fire in the form of a nailbrush when he sees her; a bare head of auburn hair and grey eyes wide. The rest is obscured by Ma's potted flowers but it's got to be Anne. Has to be. The mug of tea his mother holds out is ignored and he dashes down the hall to his room. A minute later he is in a fresh shirt and patting damp curls that won't stay down.

Rowena looks at John as if to say, Well, we've never seen _that_ before. If Ruby had been here her son would have lingered on the porch step and taken his sweet time getting dressed. Instead he perches on the rocker in his second best shirt and asks Anne if she has decided on a college course yet.

'Mister, off!' says John, tipping the rocker forward with ease.

Gilbert falls on one knee, glances up at Anne, and gestures to the backdoor. They can still hear his folks laughing as they enter the orchard. His hand goes to his head, brushing Anne's black sleeve. He wants to link arms with her but somehow here on his own land the gesture seems more than it usually does. So he reaches up as they pass under an apple tree, snaps off a stick and begins to peel the bark away.

'Famous strawberry apples,' Anne murmurs, wishing she hadn't. It was an apple just like the ones ripening above her that was left on her desk as a peace offering, back in the days when she was a pupil at Avonlea school and not its future teacher.

As if he knows what she's thinking he says, 'Should be about ready by the time school starts.'

They talk on that for a while, how they don't feel old enough, ready enough, to be put in charge of shaping young minds.

'It's fine for you,' says Anne, nudging him, 'Everyone knows who I am, they'll expect special treatment or cast up my mistakes at me. No one in White Sands has any expectations of you, you're a-'

'Tabula rasa.'

'Something like that. But have you found somewhere to live yet? This place is so lovable, I don't know how you can bear to leave.'

'I'll bear it alright,' says Gilbert, lightly. 'White Sands is an interesting town. There's these caves up on Eastern Heads, some of them still have bits of broken furniture in them-'

'You mean from smugglers?'

'I'm guessing so. Hard to believe this old rock was once a haven for pirates.'

'You're not thinking of living there are you?'

'Me? No fear. Blythe men like their comforts. Speaking of that,' he says, reddening, 'there was something I've been meaning to ask you.' The two stop under a low bough and another stick is snapped. 'I was wondering if you could... teach me some basic housekeeping skills,' he mutters. All Anne can do is repeat his last words. Anybody would. Gilbert drops the stick and scruffs the back of his head. 'Turns out it costs more than I reckoned, full board and such, and I thought it wouldn't hurt if I cooked a few meals or could tell one end of an iron from the other.'

Anne laughs. 'You really _don't_ know me, I'm the last girl to help you with that!' Before she knows it she's telling him what brought her to the Blythe place this afternoon -including her suspicions about him. 'You want Ruby or Di or Josie, Gil, you really don't want me.'

'Maybe. But there's one thing you do excel at. If I ask you not to tell a soul I know for sure you won't.' Anne shakes her head, slowly at first and then with growing vigour. 'You mean you would tell?' says Gilbert, astonished.

'I can't. The boys and girls in Avonlea aren't supposed to have anything to do with one another, remember? I shouldn't even be here.'

'I can keep a secret just as well as you.'

'But what about your word? What would Fred say if he saw me here with you?'

Gilbert prefers not to answer that. 'Let me walk you home at least. And if you happen to mention how to go about boiling an egg then no harm done.'

They turn back and it's Anne who can't stop touching the trees, sliding her hands over the trunks and apple leaves glowing with afternoon sun. Not a word has passed from her lips, or his, until Newbridge Road is reached. Curtains twitch as they stroll by and Anne says in that thoughtful, mysterious way of hers, 'How about a lesson in dyeing?'

'Sorry?'

'There's something I need, an ingredient of sorts and this time I'm accepting no substitutes. Your mother mentioned you'd be finished by midday tomorrow, Mr Blythe has business in Charlottetown. So-'

'I'm listening.'

'Meet me at the back of the Boulter's place and you'll find out.'

 **...**

 _* if you want to a better picture of the Blythe place look up the work of Carl Larsson._

 _* I can't find any reference to the names of Mrs Barry and Mrs Gillis, so I went with Ebba and Luella -if you know more than I do, please tell me._


	6. Or glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine

He's late again. Perhaps _again_ is unfair. He never knew he was expected the last time Anne waited for him. This time he does, and while he has a dozen reasons why he could be late, reasons that begin and end with the business of life on a farm, they aren't his real reason. In truth he's testing her the way he tests the depth of an unknown body of water. He wants to know how far he can go before he gets in over his head.

Anne is not the first girl he's been late for. But he never doubted they would wait, they always do. That's just how it is for Gilbert Blythe. Sure, he sometimes takes a ribbing for Ruby's roving eye, or Josie's roving all over him, but he tends to shrug that off. A Gillis is a Gillis, a Pye is a Pye, there's no sense expecting anything different. Nothing to work out. Nothing to gloat over. That's why Gilbert is as liked by the boys as he is by the girls; it doesn't occur to him to boast of his popularity anymore than he would boast over his long fingers and longer feet. Because a Blythe is also a Blythe, straightforward, confident, mindful of the rules -and the right way to go about breaking them.

He knows he is breaking one now. When he left Anne on the lane yesterday he'd been given a clear order to meet her at two by the old Boulter property. Explanations got no further because the hired man had forgotten to close the gate and one of the milkers -was it Dolly?- was butting against the fence of the Bell property and calling for her calf. He left Anne and Martin coaxing the jersey back to Green Gables when she called out. 'Oh and Gil, don't forget your hammer!'

It's tucked into a loop on the hip of his overalls, the handle swinging in time with his stride. It must be close to a quarter after, every part of him longs to run but he won't. Stubborn, that's another Blythe trait. Curious, too. And it's the latter he seeks to satisfy, he wants to know how she'll react when he doesn't do exactly what she tells him to. What he can't quite admit is that his friendship with Anne is beginning to matter and he needs to know if it matters to her. If she snubs him, fine, if she affects not to know he is late, fine; these are the common responses of the common girl, he knows how to get around that. If she argues with him... that could lead to dangerous ground. Though Ma maintains she scolds him because she cares. Seems logical to assume that Anne's anger, as unpredictable as it is, might mean the same. If _she_ is late, however...Well, he's made up his mind to wait till three and no longer. And if she doesn't turn up or explain why she sent him on a hike to that burnt out Boulter place on what must be the hottest August day in memory, then he'll know.

Exactly what he'll know he won't let himself consider, no point thinking on that till it happens. But he seems eager to find out because his pace quickens at the sight of the old house, so much so that his hammer slips out of its loop and falls into a cowpat. A quick glance over the field finds a clump of yellow dock close by, and there to the left where the earth is more sludge, a cluster of what looks like garden sorrel. He must remember to take a bunch back to Ma when he is done doing whatever he is meant to be doing with his father's best hammer. He selects the biggest of the dock leaves and wipes the handle clean, following the marshy ground till it gives way to swamp. It smells musty and stale in the hot, heavy air, still he looks at it longingly, wishing he had thought to bring a flask with him. There's sure to be a well round here but he wouldn't trust the water in it unless it had been boiled first. No doubt Anne will have thought to bring a basket of something. Girls were good like that.

Considering his thoughts are on bad water it's no surprise that on discovering Anne his first thought is she's dead. She's lying in the long grass in a thin slip of shadow offered by the house and sleeping soundly. The open book beside her explains everything. Euclid. So she decided on Art History after all. There's no other reason for her to dip into... what chapter is she on? Book eleven, of course. Sectio aurea: the golden ratio.

Gilbert can describe that number to the hundredth digit. What else was he supposed to do in the vast prairies of Alberta with no one to talk to except the deaf woman who ran the boarding house and his gravely ill father? But that was when he was a boy of eleven or twelve. He is two months shy of nineteen now and when he looks at Anne Shirley resting her head on her arms, the dark patches of sweat under each, the pink flush on her skin, her braids coiling in the dry, brown grass, it isn't phi that occurs to him. Or rather it does but in it's truest sense. Because he sees quite suddenly, so much so that he feels even hotter and has to sit down, that this strange being, this girl he has always considered whipsmart, ambitious and more stubborn than he was, is also in her own way sort of beautiful.

Clearly he's suffering heatstroke. He shifts himself into the shade, slumps against the wall of the house and fans himself with his hat. He keeps himself busy cleaning his hammer handle more thoroughly and sifting through the pages of Anne's book. Soon after decides to seek out the basket of food she is sure to have. When he finds nothing he goes into the remains of what looks like a kitchen to find something to boil water in. It's the snapping twigs that rouse her, he knew they would and positioned himself so that he won't see her wake.

Anne opens her eyes to see Gilbert striking the blade of his pocket knife over his flint with an expert flick. He feeds the fire gently, one tiny piece of kindling after the other. She would have thrown a whole log on it.

'How long have I been asleep?' Anne says. Her voice is not the least groggy. She sounds revived, even cheerful.

'Can't say. A while,' says Gilbert, without turning.

'I'll fetch some mint,' she says, 'I saw some by the back steps.' She comes back with a chipped enamel cup and her apron filled with bright green leaves. 'I got some spearmint too and some rosemary. But that's for me,' she adds, shyly, tugging on a braid. 'It might not be the colour I'd like but it's good to keep it strong and glossy.'

She has returned to the Anne he's comfortable with, the one unreconciled to her hair, and he finds he can look at her. 'You never read somewhere that rosemary darkens red hair, then?' he says, grinning as her chin juts out.

'Where would I read something like that?'

'Oh, I dunno... Dr Lavendar-'

' _You_ read Dr Lavendar? _You_. After you gave that address on science versus... how did you put it?'

'Hokus pokus. Half the Elders wanted to ban me from speaking because the title invoked witchcraft. But I don't remember you there,' he says, wiping his hands on his thighs and settling next to her.

'I wasn't. I just- heard about it.'

'I went to all your recitals-'

'That's because you were reciting, too.'

'Could have used you on the debating team.'

'Well there's always this winter, oh... I keep forgetting you're leaving soon,' she says.

There's no wistfulness in her voice, or regret, just an honesty he finds exhilarating. Anne never measures her words or tries to calculate a response, she merely says what she feels. It's then he knows for sure what he had secretly hoped to find out; that she cares about their friendship as much as he does.

'Anne...'

'Hmmm?' she says, getting onto her knees and untying her apron. She folds it into a wad and wraps it round an old ironstone crock that is sitting by the edge of the fire, then carefully pours it over the leaves in the enamel mug. She offers it to him, he waves it away with the gesture of 'ladies first' and watches her bring the cup to her lips. 'Do you mind if I blow on it?' she asks.

The fresh scent of mint spills over him as she sends her breath into the mug. Gilbert coughs. 'No- no. Go right ahead. Uh, I still don't know why I had to bring the hammer.'

'If you want to know about housekeeping, Gil, then consider this your introductory lesson. Tea _always_ comes first.'

It's not long before the mystery is revealed. The house is filled with old rusted nails just as Anne predicted. She needs as many as she can find in order to make her mordant. Her winter-weight coat and all Diana's clothing have already been dyed with indigo, and came out in velvety shades of purple and blue. All except the organdie which is now a dusky, dreamy lilac. It was one of Anne's happier accidents, done without Marilla's oversight, who thought a black organdie gown as ridiculous as Anne. But if she was going to wear black for a whole year then it would be nice to have one pretty dress. It's even prettier now, the day she would boil it in vinegar, logwood and rusty nails in order to deepen the purple to black is not one she looks forward to. But needs must. The new school term is just a few weeks away and her old black dresses are shapeless and worn. Not the sort of impression a new school mistress wants to make.

She lays her apron over the faded floorboards of what must have been the parlour. Gilbert stands upon a once imposing sideboard working iron nails from a picture rail and tossing them to her.

'Think you have enough yet?' he says. 'If I take down anymore in here I'll likely bring the wall down.'

'The Avettes would thank you for that. They are determined for Mr Boulter to level this place and sow it all to lawn.'

'Be a shame really. The plant life here is incredible. I've never seen such specimens, rare ones too.'

'I wouldn't call mint and rosemary rare,' Anne says. She reaches behind her ear for a sprig of the latter and rubs it onto her wrists while Gilbert has his back to her. It's well past three and the earth is throwing back all the heat it soaked up in the early part of the day. Anne can feel it rise through the broken floorboards and bear down through the hole in the roof. Her black dress sticks to her back and arms. The sooner they are done the sooner she can bathe. It's Wednesday tomorrow and she can finally see Diana again; though Mrs Barry is insisting on escorting her daughter to Prayer Meeting. At least Anne thinks that's what she meant, Diana's candle code is as erratic as her spelling.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of black booted feet hitting the floor, and the odour of sweaty boy hitting her. Gilbert wipes his hands on the bib of his overalls and grabs her hand to haul her up.

'Not rare, you say? Well what about this?' He points at a herb growing through the floor. 'Wood betony -though a smart girl like you probably knows it as betonica officinalis-'

'Ohh,' Anne says, nodding her head, sagely, as she peers at something that looks a lot like lavender. ' _Officinalis_ , of course.'

'Clears your nose, cures headaches... and makes superb snuff,' says Gilbert, returning her nod. 'And over here,' he continues, pulling Anne to a shingle path that currently goes nowhere. 'Eryngium maritimum-' He looks at her expectantly.

'Something to do with the sea?' she guesses.

'Sea holly! Good for cramps... and there under the birch, with the red and blue blooms, that's lungwort and next to it, ladies smock, and under the kitchen window, or what used to be the window, clove root. But this is my particular favourite,' he says, letting go her hand to pick a white star-like flower from a shrub similar to a lemon tree. He crushes a petals between his fingers and holds it under her nose.

'Licorice, it smells like licorice,' Anne says.

'It's star anise. I've only ever seen it in a book. The climate isn't hot enough for it to flourish here-'

'You don't say,' Anne says, dabbing her sleeve on her damp upper lip.

'Yeah well, that's one good thing about a hot dry summer, herbs are happy.'

'What's the book?'

'What book?'

'The one with the picture of starameeze.'

'Star Anne-ease. Like you.'

'I'm glad you think so. And the book?'

'Just something of Ma's, you know, recipes and whatnot,' he says, ducking down to examine the plant.

'If you're reading your mother's recipes, Gil, then why not ask her how to cook?'

'Because then she'd know, wouldn't she?' he answers, working his pocketknife around the stem and digging a trench around it.

'Know what?'

'That I was stewing over money.' Gilbert stands, cradling the root-ball in his hands and gazing at his prize proudly.

'Why don't you just tell her?' Anne says, caressing a leaf and extracting the aniseed perfume.

He peers at her through the white blooms. 'Same reason you don't tell Marilla that what you really want to do is take Art History. Because you can't afford the course text.'

'Go halves with me-' she blurts.

'Anne, I have absolutely no interest in studying old paintings-'

'Go halves with me and I promise to teach you all the housekeeping cheats every good housewife knows-'

'What about the Avettes?'

'-and some they don't.'

He tells her he'll think about it. In truth he doesn't have to. He made up his mind what course he was going to take the moment he saw her sleeping by that copy of Euclid. Anne is the only one he knows, boy or girl, who wants something as much as he does and is bent on getting it. He can't help but admire her passion.

That and the fact she's not afraid to break the rules.

 **...**

 _* phi is the greek term for the golden ratio. If you want to see something truly beautiful watch Vi Hart explain this theory in Doodling in Math: Spirals, Fibonacci, and Being a Plant._

 _* about dyeing. A mordant helps colour to stick, the rusty nails contain a chemical that facilitates this. In Victorian times people often dyed their clothes indigo first and then black to achieve a true, fade resistant colour._


	7. To sit a star upon the sparkling spire

Anne gets her pound of nails and her bath and spends longer than usual on her hair the following afternoon. She has a new illustration on her bedroom wall. Fresh from the pages of Godey's Ladies Book, a creamy skinned beauty wearing Braided Coiffure for a Young Lady. It's the closest Anne may wear to an up do, made from four braids that she loops across the back of her head in a half moon coronet. The effect is suitably stylish but the front is boring. No one wears a centre parting these days, the latest craze is for frizzy fringes of hair. Anne peers into the hallway mirror and sighs at her ordinary self.

'Trying to blow your freckles away?' Marilla says from the doorway.

'I would at least like to distract from them,' Anne says, and takes a pair of embroidery scissors from her pocket. 'Will you cut a little by my temples? Nothing dramatic, just a few tiny little curls,' she asks, picturing the delight on Diana's face if she arrives at the Avettes meeting with a brand new look.

Marilla is used to her strange entreaties but patience is not forthcoming today. The vision in her left eye hasn't been the same since the migraine on Monday.

'And ruin my scissors into the bargain,' she says. 'Why you would want to go about with some bit of fluff on your brow? Those Pye girls look like they have lamb's tails sprouting from their foreheads.'

The scissors in Anne's hands are returned to her pocket and her opinion of bangs quickly revised. If Josie is wearing her hair that way Anne certainly will not. It's baffling how often they like the same things, but that's not the mystery that interests her.

'How did you come to see Josie Pye?'

'She was here. Came by with this,' says Marilla. She opens the hall closet and brings out a length of neatly folded calico.

'My apron!' Anne exclaims, taking it from Marilla's hands and examining it. The stitching is wonderfully exact -and the lace!

Marilla lifts the hem and holds it near her right eye. 'Fine work. Too fine for purpose, but then that's Pyes for you.'

'Pyes? What have Pyes to do with it, Diana made this.'

Marilla shrugs. She can hear the hurt in Anne's voice and knows better than to prod it. 'Perhaps I'm mistaken,' she says, reaching for the larger of Anne's summer hats.

'No, not that one, it will spoil my look!'

'And you harping on for freckle cures will spoil my mood, so for pities sake keep out of the sun.'

Anne sets off in a huff which dissolves into a laugh when she arrives at the Pyes. Half the girls have fringes and the humid afternoon air makes them bubble up like sea sponge. Today, however, far more interesting things demand their attention: brand new aprons _and_ Ruby Gillis newly returned from her vacation out west. Jane Andrews is back from vacation too, though no one remembers her going.

Ruby has her apron over her head. She pulls it under her chin and clasps her hands in earnest prayer. 'There now,' she says, 'do I look like an Avette?'

Anne and Diana giggle.

'Ruby, AVIS is an improvement society not a religious order,' says Jane.

'Could have fooled me,' says Ruby, tugging the apron from her head and patting the ringlets that frame her face. 'What's all this nonsense about no boys allowed? I can't believe it... Well, I suppose I could believe it of _you_ -' Ruby says, eyeing Anne, 'and _certainly_ you,' she continues, shooting a look at Jane, 'but why anyone else agreed. It's the saddest thing I ever heard. What is the point of a club with no boys? If I wanted that I'd go to Church Mission!'

'The Reverend Allen attends Church Mission and he is a boy... Well- a man, really.' Jane blushes as though she uttered something blasphemous. 'If you wanted women only affairs then quilting bee would be my pick, or sewing circle, or Ladies Meet... but you have to be married for that.'

'My point exactly. Thank you, Jane!' says Ruby, kissing her chum's cheek. 'My, you smell good. That's not cologne is it -ooh, I believe it is!'

The remaining white parts on Jane's face go red and she nods with a shy excitement as Anne, Diana and Ruby leave their chairs and crowd round their friend. Jane puts down her lemonade and sits a little taller. Every girl in Avonlea knows what it means when her Mama allows her to wear cologne.

'When- _when_ did it happen?' Ruby asks her, clutching Jane's pale hand. 'You poor thing, and you've been so looking forward to sea bathing-'

'Jane's been away for six weeks, more than enough time for swimming-' Anne says.

Ruby laughs. 'Oh, I know _that_. I also know you wouldn't want to, would you Jane? When it happens to you, Anne, when you become a _real_ woman, things like sea bathing suddenly seem... juvenile.'

'Silly even,' Jane says. In truth it was the thought this peculiar bleeding might make another appearance at any moment that kept Jane to the pier while her brothers larked about on the shores of Souris. It didn't matter how many times her mother assured her that Eve's curse would now be endured for a week in every month, Jane decided the wadded cotton belted to her bloomers would be a permanent addition to her wardrobe. Better safe than sorry, that was Jane Andrews.

'Oh, it's so unfair,' Diana says, consolingly. 'We women must bear all the hardship; childbirth, the curse-'

'Which is why we should make our fun while we can,' Ruby cuts in. 'Honestly, what's the point of an improvement society when there are no boys to boss around? If you think I intend to dig or sweep you can think again. How would it look if we all did that? We'd have arms as thick as Sophie Fletcher's. Have you seen her, lately? Forearms like a blacksmith's! I tell you, I leave Avonlea for one summer and come back to find the girls turning into boys and boys all banned. And you Jane, a woman at last-'

'Hush,' Jane says, 'I'd prefer you didn't trumpet it to the entire meeting.'

'Oh, no one cares a jot about that. Look at them all, comparing their bits of lace. Really, Di, I don't know why you didn't save yourself the trouble and make up the same pattern for everyone!'

Diana starts sweeping crumbs from the table and catches them in her hand. 'It was no trouble-' she says, quickly. 'Back in a moment. I'll just throw this outside.'

'I'll come too-' Anne says, following her.

They go onto the front porch. Only a week ago they ran away to their secret garden. Anne hoped to go again today but Diana isn't as keen this time. Anne put this down to a reluctance to miss Prayer Meeting, now she isn't sure. What she does know is Josie must have helped with the making of all that lace and Diana hasn't said a word about it.

'Typical Ruby,' Diana says, 'she never wants to do anything unless flirting's involved.'

'Come on, Di, the Avettes haven't _done_ anything yet- except you, of course. I wanted to help with the aprons, but your mother-'

Diana pats Anne's hand. 'Oh Anne, I would _never_ do that to you. You detest sewing!'

Anne knows Diana means well. Last week she would have thanked her, but this week... Perhaps lace work was beyond her but aprons were manageable. She wasn't a complete dunce, she could sew a hem, she even has a pupil.

That pupil now appears, left arm around Fred Wright, right hand striking the air as though he held a baseball bat. Sam Jr, Rob, Tommy, and Ephraim come up behind. They stop in front of the ornate gate to the Pye property and look intent on staying.

'Afternoon ladies,' Gilbert calls, tugging his cap.

Anne studies the porch railing, unsure what to do. What is wrong with everyone today? Ruby wants to be a nun, Jane is wearing cologne, Diana is making up aprons with Josie, and Gilbert has become _that boy_ again.

Fred sends a wink to Diana who pivots on her heel and dashes inside. Anne stands there feeling idiotic, then murderous as Josie appears, followed by her Avettes.

'I don't expect you know this, Anne, but it isn't ladylike to linger with young men all by yourself,' she says, gliding down to the gate.

She is beaten by Ruby, who dashes past her easily and greets Gilbert with a red lipped smile.

'Ruby Gillis, caught a little sun, I see.'

'Gilbert Blythe, you must be _blind!_ '

Ruby leans in closely so that he might admire her porcelain complexion. Tommy whistles, Sam Jr guffaws. Gilbert peers over Ruby's piled up hair to Anne, wondering if she heard. She's nowhere to be seen, absorbed by a line of girls who giggle and whisper from the sanctuary of the porch.

'Who invited _you_ here?' says Josie. Despite her fighting talk looks very pleased to see them. The boys shove their hands in their pockets and start muttering things like 'free country' and 'walk where we want to' under their breath.

' _I_ invited them,' says Ruby, 'and I'm leaving with them, too. Josie, be a dear and fetch my basket and my hat.'

'Allow me,' says Gilbert. He leaps the gate and struts up the path lined with Mrs Pye's prized gladioli. Unsurprisingly the girls decide they're ready to leave, too. They follow Gilbert into the housekeeper's room where guests may leave their shawls and hats, and helpfully point out Ruby's new bonnet. Anne is not among them. No matter, he'll catch up with her at Prayer Meeting. He wants to know if he can change the time of his sewing lesson now Fred's asked for help with the barn roof. After that he's promised himself to the Fletchers, then Pa expects him for fencing, Ma to cut the week's wood. He wonders if it wouldn't be easier if he gave up his teaching position and worked the farm full time. But if Anne can manage the farm, nurse Marilla, take a college course, prepare for school, make time for AVIS and for him, then he can find a way. Easy doesn't come into it. He has to.

Prayer Meeting is cancelled because Reverend Allen is called to the Glovers. Everyone in the hall looks at Abner Sloane who shuffles along a row of chairs and makes his way to the graveyard. Gilbert escorts Ruby home, watching the girl in black in front of him. She waves off Diana and Jane, whose families are dining together this evening, but instead of taking the Birch Path she remains on Newbridge Road. It's almost as if she didn't want to go home. Something's up and Gilbert guesses it has to do with Ruby making jokes about going blind. He declines a cold drink with the Gillis sisters and runs to catch up with Anne.

'Sorry 'bout Ruby. You know how her mouth runs away from her. How're you faring with Marilla, if you don't mind me asking?'

'I'm no longer brewing beer if that's what you mean,' Anne snaps.

'You know there's plenty that can help with eyesight,' Gilbert says, ignoring her tone, 'don't give up your potions yet.'

She stops under the old pine and glares at him. 'If you knew me you would never say tha-' Her words peter out as she takes in his expression. 'Oh. You think I'm funny.'

'Well, you are a little.'

He hoped to make her laugh. Instead Anne feels dangerously close to tears; was there anyone in Avonlea who didn't find her laughable?

'I miss him, Gilbert,' she says suddenly. 'I miss Matthew... He would know what to do- he used to be able to look at me and know what I was thinking. Do you know how rare that is? His going made everything worse and all I can think is that his coming back will make everything better and he's not coming back. Not ever. Nothing makes sense anymore- _I_ don't make sense anymore-'

Gilbert shoves his handkerchief under her nose and pulls her along. 'Anne, you never made sense, not when Matthew was here, not now he's gone. You're not being honest with yourself if you think any different.'

'I'm tired of not making sense, tired of not fitting in-'

'I thought you held yourself apart on purpose, it's what I always liked about you. You know I never knew Matthew that well, but I can fairly guess what he might say. He'd tell you to stop fussing and discover another way to help Marilla.'

'I suppose you know how to do that, too,' Anne says, grudgingly. 'You always have to be the best at everything.'

'You're a fine one to talk.'

'Me?' says Anne, opening the gate to Green Gables.

Martin is coming down the drive and nods his thanks to her. 'Much obliged, Anne,' he says, raising his eyebrows at Gilbert. ' _He_ comin', too?'

'Don't mind us, Martin,' Anne says, drily. 'This is how we always are.' She turns to Gilbert and beckons him through the gate. 'Well, are you game?'

'I dunno. Suddenly the thought of you and all those needles seems like a bad idea.'

'You're just worried there might be something you're bad at.'

She's got him now, there's no way Gilbert Blythe can resist a challenge. In two minutes she has him in Matthew's chair sewing his first button onto a scrap of flannel.

'Could do with something to eat,' he mumbles with a length of thread between his lips.

'You're making that, too,' says Anne. 'Two rounds of toast and two cups of tea-'

'Nice try, Anne, but you won't get me interfering in Marilla Cuthbert's kitchen no matter what you say.'

'Marilla's not here, she went straight on to Mrs Lynde's. They're making up a batch of baking for the-'

'Glovers, of course. Ma'll be there, too. And Pa. He hates her driving after dark. Say Anne...'

'Mmm,' she says, bending over Gilbert's shoulder to scrutinise his work. 'It's neat enough and would do for a shirt, but it's no good for anything thicker. You haven't made your shank near long enough-'

'Forget the button, do you have time to come back to my place? It's eight o'clock, are you allowed out by yourself past then? Not alone, I mean with me.'

'I suppose so, why?'

'We could take Lovers Lane then cut through the Barry's corn field, no one would see us.'

'I wouldn't care if they did, not if it's important. This _is_ important, I take it, or are you trying to get out of making supper?'

'I told you Ma's not home, that's why you have to come now.'

It's the look on his face that convinces her, half eager, half shy; the one he makes when he is babbling about herbs. It's like there are two Gilberts, the boy he is with everyone else and the boy he is with her.

It takes less than ten minutes to get to the Blythe place. He keeps wanting to grab her hand, she keeps insisting she could run faster without dragging him along, after that they are too breathless to argue. Anne leans against the porch post of the Blythe's house and waits for Gilbert to open the front door. Instead he leads her round the side of the house and into the orchard. There's no moonlight here, the sky has been heaped with great, damp clouds all day. When Anne enters the cooler space beneath the apple trees she feels ticklish drips of perspiration fall between her breasts and down the small of her back. The air smells of fallen apples that never made it to ripeness rotting in the grass below. Still somehow it all looks beautiful, when he takes her hand this time she doesn't pull away.

'Gil, what are we-'

'Shhh, I want to be sure there's no one here.'

'Where? I don't see anything-'

'Shhh, up ahead,' he whispers. 'There.'

 _There_ turns out to be a hedge of juniper and a path a white stone that glows blue in the darkness. Alongside each stone are flowering herbs all in shades of purple. Not that Anne can make out their colour but she can smell them. Her black skirts summoning the sticky perfume of hyssop, catmint, sage and verbena as she picks her way through the border.

'Vervain and dill hinders witches of their will,' Anne murmurs.

'Let us hope so,' says Gilbert, swallowing hard and parting the leaves of a laurel to reveal the entrance of a tiny stone house.

 **...**


	8. And come, for Love is of the valley

'Wait here,' says Gilbert.

One hand opens the door just enough to admit his nose, the other is held out to bar Anne's way. She's taller than most girls, he always forgets that, and her nose suffers the consequences.

'Oof, look where you're-'

'Shhh!' he utters, 'Maybe it's best if you wait over there.'

Anne looks to where the offending hand is pointing, which unexpectedly is straight up. She spies a ladder bolted to the side of the cottage and mounts it quickly. Why he brought her all the way here and wouldn't let her in -whose house is this anyway? The roof has a low pitch that begs to be laid upon. So she does, smoothing her black skirts modestly and working her head over the slates in search of a comfy spot. The next moment she no longer cares if she is comfortable or not, her eyes are wide, stretching madly to take in the wonder of the view above. There are gleaming treetops all around. And the clouds! They unfurl in luminous pillows like a glorious Constable sky. It's as though someone -God, Matthew? -has taken the brass framed print from the little room off the kitchen and plastered it over the heavens. One cloud glows more than the others, dissolving in the moonlight, and a bleached orb, so bright it hurts to look at it sends cool white light all over her.

Anne shivers and sits up, or tries to. Her Braided Coiffure for a Young Lady catches on a cracked roof slate. She sucks on her tongue instead of yelping and attempts to wriggle free. The one thing she won't do is call for Gilbert. For once her pride saves her because she hears two people coming through the orchard. One of them -it could only be Gilbert's mother- sounds furious. Anne breathes deep and waits for whatever wrath is about to hit. For once it's not directed at her.

'I'm sorry John, it is my business,' says Mrs Blythe, standing just below her, 'Izzy Glover came to _me_ -'

'Months after she went to Dr Spencer-'

'Only because he scared her so. Why would she seek my help if Ed Spencer had all the answers?'

'Come now Ro, none of us have all the answers, and nothing could be done for her.'

'Nothing in his dreaded physician's manual, to be sure. He treats that book like a bible-'

'He's not the only one.'

'Don't you start,' Rowena says, in a tone that says she is getting ready to do just that. Instead she cocks her head like a robin and frowns. 'Someone's here...'

A fragile silence falls upon them, Anne on the rooftop, Gilbert inside the cottage, and his parents on the white stone path. John holds his arm out to shield his wife with the same gesture his son used earlier, and creeps toward the house.

Gilbert knows there is no point hiding and meets him at the door. 'Hey, Pa.'

'Gilbert! How many times have I told you not to come here?'

'About a million,' says Gilbert, trying for sheepish. 'Before you kill me I have good reason. Anne and I-'

'Anne Shirley?' his father asks him, hauling him to where his mother stands.

'Yessir. Evening Mother.'

Rowena is not smiling. Worse, her hands have gone to her hips. 'Don't 'evening' me, Gilbert Aurelius. Answer me this. Are you here _because_ of Anne or are you here _with_ Anne -and it better not be the latter!'

'Anne's not the kind to tell-'

Rowena laughs briefly. 'If only the rest of Avonlea were so circumspect.'

'I don't get your meaning,' Gilbert says, all trace of mischief gone from his voice _._

'You and Anne are now employed by the Board of Education. What do you think they will say if they hear the newly appointed teacher of the Avonlea school has been entertaining the newly appointed teacher of the White Sands school without a chaperone?'

'Without a what?' Gilbert splutters, 'I don't need- we don't need chaperones. Who told you she was _entertaining_ me?'

'None of your business,' says Rowena, while John says, 'Martin Rossi.'

Rowena rolls her eyes. 'Martin is beside the point. The point is do you have good reason for being at Green Gables this evening when Marilla Cuthbert was not?'

'Anne doesn't care about things like that.'

'Answer her, son,' John says, placing his hand in Gilbert's shoulder.

Gilbert lowers his head and shakes it, slowly. 'Not one you would understand.'

John is out of patience, he's got more than enough on his plate already without puzzling out this nonsense. He's tired and anxious about tomorrow and it comes out as a cuff across the top of Gilbert's head. Rowena immediately softens, she never could stand it when John did that, and asks him to go into the cottage and get a fire going. Gilbert gazes at the treetops. With his hazel eyes raised heavenward he looks like her little boy again. Oh, that he was. Broken fingers and torn knee pants were so much easier to fix.

'I understand plenty, Gilbert, but I don't know that you do. You haven't considered where these things lead.'

'We all know about Izzy Glover if that's what you mean,' he says, reddening. 'I have no intention of getting myself tangled in something like that. Truth is I don't ever see myself marrying.'

'Oh spare me,' Rowena says, 'you'll marry alright. But I want _you_ to make that choice, not have someone make it for you. A girl's not the only one with a reputation to consider. If it gets about that you are carrying on with Anne-'

'Ma! I would never-'

'-then what's to stop another girl claiming the same when she finds herself in trouble?'

'Well, she can just go to you, can't she?' As soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets it. He's certain Anne can hear every word. It's the last thing he wants her to know, but it's his mother's expression that shames him.

'Don't you ever make light of what I do,' she says. 'I'm about to distill a dose of valerian for a young girl who lost her baby. Nothing about this is funny. Nothing. Now is there anything else you want to tell me?'

Gilbert's gaze flicks up to the sky again. 'No, ma'am.'

Rowena's eyes close with relief. 'Then get yourself to bed. The bank's here tomorrow to appraise our harvest-'

'Tomorrow?'

'Yes, Gilbert, the twenty-eighth is tomorrow. If we don't get that loan-'

'You don't have to worry about that, or me-' says Gilbert, kissing his mother's head.

'Oh Gil, if you should lose your teaching job over some fool behaviour-'

'I won't, I won't, I'll be the very model of a gentleman. I'll be- I'll be a Sloane!'

'No need to go that far,' says Rowena. She turns in the doorway and gives her son a smile. 'Now bed.'

The door has barely closed before Gilbert quickly climbs the ladder and steps onto the roof. He can't see Anne at first, he should have expected she would be lying down. He places a finger over her lips and whispers in her ear. 'We can't risk coming down till they've gone, but as soon as they do I'll saddle up Rebel and get you home.' They lie together easily. After everything his mother said it doesn't occur to Gilbert that it would be wiser if they didn't. How can he think of things like that when the clouds are this astonishing? His mother had the ladder made in order to measure the stars. One day he's going to buy her a telescope, though right now a bunch a flowers might be more prudent. He shouldn't have said what he did and feels sick about it. And sleepy, working on his class schedule till midnight wasn't one of his best ideas...

'Gil -Gilbert.'

'Mmm.'

'Your folks have gone, they've gone.'

Gilbert jerks awake and attempts to pull Anne up.

'Ow, no -let go,' she says, 'I'm stuck.'

'Why am I not surprised,' he says. 'Which part of you is being uncooperative?'

'My hair, it's caught beneath a slate-'

'Of course it is.'

'Can you unbraid it?'

'Oh, I... I'm not sure that's a good idea-' He backs away with a doltish look on his face that makes Anne want to laugh.

'Haven't you unbraided hair before? That's not what Ruby says-'

Reluctantly Gilbert gets onto his knees and feels around the nape of Anne's neck. 'Ruby says all sorts of things... I think I've found the problem, it's not your hair, it's the ribbon round it.'

'I wonder what she'll say when she finds out you're never getting married.'

'Oh, you heard that, did you? There- that's got it. Try and sit up.'

Once she does and her eyes are level with his they stare at each other in all that pure clear light and it happens. It almost had to. He couldn't have spent the last hour talking about _that_ , sleeping next to her, loosening her ribbon, without knowing it would come: that piercing electricity that strikes them both quite dumb. It doesn't help that Anne looks so bewitching; her serious eyes, her wild red hair spilling over her ugly dress. And he thinks -he can't believe this but he thinks- if he had to marry anyone he could do worse than marry her. And she thinks that if she moves one finger, one muscle, she's not sure what she'll do next; kiss him on his gaping mouth or push him off the roof.

'We should go,' he says, inching toward the edge of it.

Anne grabs his forearm and holds him fast. 'I want to talk to you about something first.'

Gilbert takes a deep breath and readies himself for all the questions he assumes she'll have; about what he was doing in the house, about Izzy, about his mother -why did he have to say what he did when he knew that Anne was listening? All sorts of vague denials construct themselves in his head.

'I can't let you take the school in White Sands,' she says, 'it's not right-'

'Huh?'

'It's too much, Gilbert. You can't afford to board away anymore than I can.'

'Anne, I can-'

'No. You can't. This isn't about housekeeping lessons. Your folks need you. Who's going to do your share when you're gone? I heard you let your hired man go.'

'We're getting a new man -regardless of what the bank says, because I'll be covering his wages.'

He doesn't sound resentful, if anything he seems proud. Anne pulls her knees up to her chest, says hmmm and frowns.

'You might excel at geometry, Gil, but arithmetic isn't your strong suit. There's no way for you to board away, take a course, save for college _and_ pay for a hired man-'

'It is possible, I've it worked out to the last penny. Why do you think I wanted to save a few by learning how to cook -which-' he says, nudging her, 'you still haven't taught me.'

She gives him a half smile and shakes her head. 'Gilbert, I'm serious, teachers make $230 a year.'

'White Sands pays $300-' The look she gives him hits him like a punch to the gut. 'Whoa, whoa- Avonlea offered the same-'

'The _same?_ '

'That's plenty usual, men always get more.'

'Seventy dollars more! I might understand if I'd only attained a second class teachers licence - _might_ -' she says, and he winces again, 'but after I topped the entrance exam... when I won the Avery... why am I worth so much less than you?'

Gilbert shrugs and shuffles over to the ladder. 'We really should go,' he says, offering his hand.

Anne knows what she wants to do now and it's definitely not kissing. 'Go then,' she says, coldly. 'I wouldn't want to ruin your reputation.'

His hand hits the side of the roof. 'Confound it, Anne! I _knew_ you'd do this-'

'Let me by, please,' she says, 'I'm walking home. Alone.'

'Like there's any way I'd allow you to do that-'

' _Allow_ me? Get out of my way, I mean it, Gilbert-'

'I won't. Not this time.' He really believes he can keep her there, but this isn't the first time Anne has been cornered. 'What are you- Anne, you can't!' Gilbert yelps.

Anne has leapt onto the nearest branch and wrapped her legs around it. She shuffles along till she reaches the trunk and shimmies to the ground. She's laddered her stocking and torn a seam but these seem small prices to pay for her freedom. By the time Gilbert has scrambled down she is gone. He can't be sure which route she might have taken. Does he take a guess, or go back and saddle up his horse and meet her at the gate of Green Gables. But then what? The subject is closed so far as Anne Shirley is concerned. Besides, what does he plan on saying to anyone who wants to know what he's doing there at this time of night? Nope, nothing good can come of following her. He gives Rebel the apple in his pocket and closes the stable door.

If he'd thought more with his heart instead of his head he would have known where she was and reached her in less than a minute. The Presbyterian cemetery borders the Blythe property and it's there Anne runs to, leaping over crooked pickets and falling to her knees in front the mound of red earth where Matthew's body lies. The tiny flower heads that spring up over the grave site have closed up for the night, their shadows like arrows on his makeshift cross. She looks to where they are pointing, to the moon, and clenches her hands in prayer till her knuckles show white like a line of constellations.

'Oh Matthew, please hear me...'

Anne looks up at that bleached white orb expecting it to answer. There is nothing to be heard except the sound of her own breath. Her hands come undone and she slumps back, crossing her legs and cradling her chin the way she always does when she settles in for their conversation.

'So... you're not there either. When the moon shone down on me before I felt for sure it must be you. The sky looked like it had been touched by the brush of your favourite painter. It's still there, you know, The Haywain, hanging above your bed, and all your things, just as you left them. Except your snuff box, the one with the oval enamel of a square in Venice, your little Canaletto. I think Marilla has that. Of course, it might have caught Martin's eye, but I like to think the best of people... even if they think the worst of me. At least I used to be able to. Now I... I've forgotten how to be your Anne. I keep trying to be her and it comes out all wrong and you're the only one who can make it right and I can't feel you- I can't hear you anymore. Everyone said it would hurt less with time but it isn't true. Marilla, Diana, Gilbert, they all keep the truth from me. Even the moon lies because you're not the moon. The moon belongs to the world and I belonged to you and I can't do this without you, Matthew! Oh come back, _please_ come back...'

Anne flings herself to the ground and cries the cry of one who knows there will be no comfort at the end, only absence. A Matthew sized hole far bigger than the mound before her. She feels herself the last person alive in all the world because that's how it feels. But it's not how it is.

Aloneness is a rare state in a small village like Avonlea. Diana could do with some herself. She is being walked home after dining at the Andrews. Billy clutches her arm so tightly she has pins and needles in her fingers. Her other hand is lodged in the soggy grip of his cousin, Dwight, who insists they stroll to Orchard Slope via the graveyard. Girls get clingy round graveyards.

'Look!,' he says, holding out his lantern. 'What's that moving over there?'

'The ghost of Izzy Glover's baby...' says Billy, sounding braver than he feels.

'You clod,' says Dwight, straight into Diana's ear. 'It's way too big. Must be Abner-'

'If Abner Sloane was a _girl_. Gotta be Izzy-'

'But that girl's got red hair-'

Now the Andrews boys have Diana's attention. She frees herself and bustles to the edge of the cemetery. 'Anne? Anne, is that you?'

Anne stands up and spies her friend negotiating the picket fence in her white summer dress and scurrying toward a freshly dug grave. 'No, Diana -stop -wait!'

'W-whatever for?' Diana stammers, and freezes mid-stride.

She looks so frightened yet here she is in the cemetery daring to get to her friend. Anne wipes her cheeks and begins to smile. This was what Matthew had been trying to tell her. The moon! Diana! Of course!

'Stay where you are. I'll come to you,' Anne says, weaving around the gravestones and enfolding Diana in her arms.

'Were you talking to Matthew again?' Diana asks, her voice breaking as she notes Anne's red eyes and a redder nose. 'Oh darling, we're all so worried about you-'

Anne meets her gaze and holds her tight. 'You don't have to be, Di, I have an angel watching over me,' she says softly. 'And, it seems, a goddess, too.'

 **...**

 _* I don't know Martin's last name so I gave him Rossi_

 _* valerian is used as a sedative_

 _* I'm assuming you all know this but in case you don't Diana is the Roman goddess of the moon (among other things)_


	9. come thou down and find him

Some things in life are self evident. Other times we have to be in it up to our necks before we finally understand -and Anne gets it now. No boys allowed sounds like the most sensible idea in the world and she throws herself into the Avettes with all the zeal of the newly converted. The following week she arrives at the Pyes ten minutes early. Her apron is so starched, when the housekeeper invites her to sit it juts out over her knees. She's endeavouring to bend it down when Josie appears with a red ribbon stitched along her bib.

'Scarlet for the president,' she explains, running her fingers over it and the contours of a noticeably full bosom. 'Turquoise for vice, fuchsia for secretary, emerald for the treasurer, coral for fundraising...'

On she goes until Anne realises there are only two girls who haven't been given such a colourful distinction and she is one of them. 'Is there anything I can do?' she asks her, then reaches into her basket and pulls out her three page paper on possible projects the Avettes could begin before winter sets in. 'I have so many ideas-'

Josie smiles and straightens a vase on the black marble mantelpiece. She's not sure if she is flattered or threatened. Mainly threatened. Anne Shirley always finds a way to make everything about her. 'Then be sure to present it to Alice,' she says, fussing over the orchids. 'She's in charge of propositions. That's amethyst, Anne, in case you forgot.'

The pages begin to crumple in Anne's hands. 'Couldn't I just tell y-'

'Oh, I know!' Josie cuts in. She claps her hands the way Diana does when something excites her. 'We really need someone to organise set up and clean up in the parlour every week. The housekeeper has enough to do and as you're early...'

Before Anne can reply Josie ducks out of the parlour and returns with her sewing basket. It's the deluxe edition with velvet lined drawers that pull out like a staircase brimming with ribbons, lace and threads of all colours. The kind Ruby Gillis sighs over when she flicks through the Eatons catalogue.

'Here,' says Josie, brightly, pulling out a roll of grosgrain. 'You favour black, don't you, Anne? How about black for housekeeping -oh... _Now_ I'll have to think of a position for Carrie. She's only fourteen so-'

'Junior housekeeping?' Anne says, stuffing the ribbon into her basket.

'Anne Shirley, you're so much fun!' To prove it Josie erupts in laughter then just as suddenly stops. 'Now if you wouldn't mind bringing in the chairs from the dining room. _Not_ the carvers, the other twelve, I'd be ever so grateful, I need to speak with Mother-'

'Could Gertie help?' Anne says, standing up. Her apron seems to thinks she's still sitting. Josie gives her another bright smile.

'Oh Anne, don't you remember? Gertie's _coral._ '

'Gertie's _coral!_ ' Anne says, in a perfect imitation.

And in perfect safety. The Avette's meeting has long been convened and she kneels in the gold grass of the secret garden with a condescending look on her face and two apples stuffed down the front of her dress. Diana rolls around beside her, snorting into her hands.

'Oh Anne, stop!'

'I'd like to, Di, but until we decide on a ribbon colour for the girl in charge of stopping things I have no choice but to go on...'

'Poor old Josie, I don't think she realised how much work it was being president- give me one of those Sweetens will you, I'm famished.'

Anne dips inside the collar of her dress and retrieves her apples. 'Pity,' she says, 'I quite liked having a bosom.'

'You suited it, too.' Diana giggles and bites into warm fruit. 'I'm already sick of apples and it's only just gone Autumn.'

Anne lies down next to her friend and plays the apple over her lips. She's thinking of kissing again. What happens when lips meet? Who decides what part goes where, and how does one breathe? She feels her breath hit the blushing skin of a heart sized Red Sweeten, hears it in the quiet spaces between cricket song. It sounds so loud -perhaps you have to hold it in? But when do you let it out again? Nothing about kissing makes sense at all. She attacks the apple with her teeth and takes a indecent sized bite. 'I don't remember seeing any apple trees when we were last here, or that maple.'

'The leaves have turned already-' Diana says, lifting her chin to take in the view of the scarlet tree behind her. 'My, but August has flown. Remember when Summers seemed years long?'

It feels like years to Anne yet there is truth in what Diana says. All those weeks have passed her by and she still hasn't finished her welcoming address to her pupils for Monday morning. She should be doing it now but every time she looks at it she wants to scribble it out and write a speech on the emancipation of women instead. Why should she get paid so much less for doing the exact same job? Anne tells herself its her pride that hurts, but it was Gilbert's shrug stung the most. The shrug of the careless, the entitled... the shrug of _that_ _boy_. Anne tosses the apple core into a blackberry hedge -blackberries? she could have sworn they were roses- and helps Diana up.

'Those girls we used to be, do you ever miss them?' On the journey home they recall them. The spruces remind of the Haunted Wood; the stand of beeches the first day they strolled to school. Anne waits for Diana to mention Gilbert. Diana expects Fred Wright to come up. Instead they discuss their teachers; horrid Teddy Phillips and inspiring Muriel Stacey.

'You'll be just like her, I know it,' Diana says, squeezing Anne's arm, 'Whenever I go weak kneed I always picture Miss Stacey. That day she slammed her textbook shut and gave a speech on ladies feats of derring do-'

'I just hope I can live up to her-'

'But you do, you ninny... Far more than me.'

Anne would usually respond by teasing Diana about Billy _and_ Dwight both vying for her affections, but somehow that's not funny anymore. 'What do you want to do, Di?'

'Oh, I don't know...' Diana stops on the log bridge that connects Orchard Slope from Green Gables and peers into the brook. Her shoulders rise as she breathes in deep, and fall with a long, low sigh. 'Nothing that's going to win me any prizes, not like you. Just little things. I- I'd like to get the pickets round the graveyard mended, and the school, it's in desperate need of paint, and... I'd like to have a proper lane cut through the Birch Path. It's unpassable in the winter months and I hate thinking of you having to set off an hour earlier on freezing mornings in order to get to school. You'll have porch to clear, the fire to make, and tea to warm your pupils. And you'll be half froze yourself after trekking the long way up Carmody Road-'

'I never thought-'

'I want to be proud of our school, visit a graveyard that looks cared for, and know I'd done my part to bring it about. Does any of that make sense?'

'It does,' Anne says, unable to say more. She is as overwhelmed by the goodness of Diana's ambitions as she is by the realisation she has been too long preoccupied with her own woes. When she mocked the Avettes she might have just as well have mocked Diana. Anne swallows down hard on the lump in her throat -no more tears, not a one- and forces herself to speak. 'And we'll do it, too.'

'We?' Diana says, blinking. 'But you loathe Avettes, I know you do-'

'I _love_ you. Besides your ideas are so much better than mine.'

Diana grins, madly. She can hear her mother's voice in her head telling her it isn't ladylike to appear so boastful, but she can't help it.

'Well,' she says, taking a bow, 'there's a first time for everything!'

So said Marilla when she discovered Anne in the wash house attempting to scrub the skin from her hands when she dyed them black on Thursday morning. And so thought Gilbert when he opened the door to Anne on Friday afternoon.

'Apple for the teacher?' she says.

'That depends. If I eat it am I in danger of falling asleep for a hundred years?'

Evidently this makes Anne a crone. She doesn't say this, however, she makes a poor joke about mixing up fairy tales. Or she would have. It never got all the way out because she can't stop staring at his mouth. Why in the world did she imagine she would like to kiss _that?_

'Wha-?' Gilbert mutters, through chewed up apple.

He brings out a handkerchief and dabs his chin. Anne notices buttons sewn on each corner and steels herself for what she knows must come next.

'I came because I didn't keep my promise to you and you're leaving tomorrow and I-'

'The one time I get accused of impropriety and I was taking sewing lessons,' he says, interrupting what he guesses is going to be an apology. He used to dream about Anne begging for his forgiveness, but things like that seem small-souled now. 'You know, you could outrun a pronghorn- it's a prairie expression,' Gilbert adds in response to her widening eyes. 'I take it Martin never talked to Marilla?'

'Only to me,' Anne says, with a grateful smile. 'It was Marilla he was concerned about, which surprised me. I always thought he went out of his way to annoy her.'

'In Avonlea we call that courting.'

'Then I should have my pick of husbands.'

'If you only knew- Say,' he adds quickly, 'I've been meaning to tell you-'

'If this is about Charlie Sloane-'

'No. Bilberries. The other night when you- when we... What I mean is I was looking through Ma's book for something that might help eyesight and your best bet is bilberries.'

'Not blueberries? Because I know where to find a load of them.' And blackberries, she thinks but doesn't add. 'But bilberries. You might as well tell me I have to find pineapple.'

Gilbert tosses his apple core in the flowerbed by the porch. 'That's true,' he says. 'We'll just have to think of something else.'

Anne feels the way Diana did when he says the word 'we' and beams. 'Well,' she says, reluctantly, 'I guess perhaps maybe I should probably go. I just wanted to be sure that-'

'Yeah, we're good. Listen Anne, just because they're paying you less it doesn't mean you're worth less.'

'I know, I know. It wasn't really you I was mad at.'

Actually it was but there was no need for him to know that. So this is what it means to be the bigger person. She walks tall on her way to the graveyard. Feels tall too, when she comes up behind Marilla and wraps her arms around her. 'I'm back Marilla-est of Marillas,' she says, nestling into her shoulder. 'It didn't take as long as I thought.'

'You haven't missed much,' says Marilla, 'I talk. My brother says nothing. Just the way it's always been. One thing we could always agree on was how proud we are of all you've done. You'd tell me if you changed your mind about Redmond, wouldn't you? I know regrets can eat at one's heart. I wouldn't for worlds wish that on you.'

Marilla searches Anne's eyes because no matter how contrary the girl might be the truth can always be found there. And a fear she's become so skilled at hiding tightens it hold. There might be a day, and soon, when Anne's dear face and the expressions that give life to her loveliness would be robbed from her, would be gone. She longs to drink in her every feature, it hurts to look away, but Marilla knows how to harden herself to pain. She turns to face the slow swelling breeze and it loosens a length of her hair.

Anne is struck by her grace. She used to think Marilla might have made more of herself. The mean little bun and plain cut dresses gave her a severe appearance. But in the weeks since Matthew's death a tenderness had come, and it showed itself in such a way that what Marilla wears no longer reflects the woman she is becoming. If Anne had never witnessed this her need to dress in black would certainly have waned. It's already causing comments; mourning time for orphans had long since passed -who did she think she was? Anne stands by the woman beside her and she has her answer.

'I'm where I belong,' she says, simply, 'and that's here with you.'

She looks about the _here_ she stands in and crosses her arms. Diana's right, the place is unloved and ugly, why hadn't she noticed before? They begin to pluck up the weeds, Anne observing Marilla, carefully. She has to turn her head in order to see to her left, and disguises it by working her way in the other direction. In ten minutes she's cleared a path to the south most corner whilst regaling Anne with a brief history of the feud between Blythes and Sloanes. Sloanes believed that Blythes should mow the graveyard since they lived closest to it. Whilst Blythes maintained it was the job of Abner Sloane.

'This was twenty years ago.'

'Mr Sloane's been digging graves for twenty years?'

'Almost thirty. He wasn't too happy about the last one. Earth's gone like granite in the sun. This summer's been unseasonably warm, I can't help thinking on the winter ahead. It's a bad sign, Anne. Leaves are already turning, geese are taking flight. Heavy snows are coming-'

'But we know what to do, and we've got Martin.'

'If Martin can get to us.'

'You think it might be as bad as that?'

'It's in God's hands.' As Marilla says this she slips one round Anne's. The other is wrapped around a ragged bouquet of grasses and dried up flowerheads. 'Something for the teapot?' she says, and laughs.

Anne takes the weeds from her and tosses them over the Blythe's fence. 'And your eyesight, is that in God's hands, too?'

Marilla stiffens and lets go. 'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Why, because Matthew might hear? Have you told him, Marilla?'

'Ridiculous child, it's time we were home. Martin'll be waiting on his tea.'

'Couldn't he get his own tea for once?' Anne says, and is amazed when Marilla laughs again.

'Spoken like a true Avette,' she says, wiping her eyes. 'I have to say I never expected you calling on John's boy after swearing off menfolk for good.'

Anne pretends to be shocked but she can't help laughing. 'Oh, you saw that, did you?' she says.

'I might be losing my eyesight, Anne Shirley. But I _notice_ everything.'

 **...**


	10. By the happy threshold

After her first day teaching Anne arrives at Green Gables to a curious sight. Martin is ironing. It should be comical seeing a man in denim overalls and stocking feet working the sad-iron over her frilly pillowcase. Instead Anne is filled with a quick, cold dread. She had been reliving the day's triumphs and tragedies as she walked home and is bursting to share them with Marilla. To come into the kitchen and find the hired man doing the laundry... something must be gravely wrong.

'Clever thing these contraptions,' Martin says by way of greeting. 'This here handle is detachable so's you don't burn your hand when you're heating the iron.'

'A woman invented it,' Anne says, sounding very much the schoolmarm. Well, what did he mean by telling her about her iron as though she'd never used one before? More to the point where was Marilla? She asks him, crisply.

'In the parlour,' Martin says, plunging the hot end of a poker into the long, round-ended cylinder of a goffering iron and spitting on it.

Anne cheeks go red as she remembers a particularly unschoolmarmish joke Ruby makes about this iron's similarity to a certain part of the male anatomy, and hurries out of the kitchen relieved that she never had to teach Gilbert how to use one. She finds Marilla setting out the rosebud tea-set upon the table where the Minister and other esteemed visitors take their tea.

'Oh, Marilla, you don't have to go to such trouble for me-'

Marilla smiles one of her crinkly smiles. 'This isn't for you, this is for the new Avonlea school mistress,' she quips. 'Now why don't you make yourself useful and fetch the plum preserves, I'm expecting her any minute now.'

Anne runs into her welcoming arms and nestles against her shoulder. 'You know I heard she prefers peaches,' she murmurs, her lips coming up against the cool feel of a pearl fixed to Marilla's earlobe. Marilla is wearing jewelry! Anne knows enough not to mention to this and sits down before leaping up for the peach preserves. As she reaches the door she turns and says, 'Shall I fetch Martin, too?'

Marilla straightens the cake fork, the smile in her voice evident as she says that Martin is getting his own. Anne is scraping the last of the peaches from the dish and adding another dollop of cream before she dares ask how he came to be doing the laundry.

'He did no such thing,' says Marilla from behind her teacup. 'I was running behind this afternoon and he offered to finish up some of the smaller linens while I set the table.'

'That was very thoughtful of him,' Anne says, carefully. 'Resourceful too.'

'His wife died when the twins were seven, there was no way for him to afford extra help so he had to learn to do for himself-'

'Twins? I thought he only had a daughter. She went to the school in Carmody, didn't she?' Anne asks, ashamed to realise she never learned the Rossi girl's name.

'Yes, that's Dora. Her brother's Davy and a right tearaway. He ran away at thirteen and broke his father's heart. But Dora's as steady as they come. She's been running the Rossi house since she was ten.'

A bittersweet feeling of fellowship strikes Anne's heart. When she was that age she was forced to forgo school in order to take care of the Hammond children. After number eight was born Anne had asked Mrs Hammond why the stork kept bringing her babies when she detested them so much? That had earned her a night in the hen house nursing an ear so sore she couldn't hear out of it for a week. Martin Rossi hardly seemed capable of that. Anne used to think he wasn't capable of much. It didn't matter how often she told him how to do something he would ask her the same thing the very next day. His thoughts and his actions seemed as dull and grey as the shapeless felt hat he was never seen without. Why did he dress like an old man, he couldn't be more than fifty? Anne laughs then because one of her pupils had asked her a similar question.

'What are you giggling over now?' says Marilla.

'I was remembering something Anthony Pye said this morning. We were sitting in a circle on the school field playing What do you wish you knew?-' Marilla sniffs to show she doesn't think much of such teaching methods. 'Each child was trying to outdo the next,' Anne continues. 'Jean-Louise wanted to know what sort of cheese the moon was made of, Martha Wright wondered what number came after infinity, even the Minister's son screwed up the courage to ask if it was possible for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle? Don't roll your eyes, it was asked with perfect earnestness and only confirmed why I decided to begin the game in the first place. I used to be brimming with so many whys and there was no one to ask, at least no one I dared ask. I want to encourage the childrens' curiosity, make them hungry to learn about the world-'

'You'll make them impudent is what you'll do. You can be sure they were all on best manners today, but what will you do a month from now when they start asking you things they'd be better asking their parents or their parson?'

'You're too wise for me, dear Marilla. It already happened. Anthony wanted to know why I went about dressed like a dried up old widow, and why I don't dye my hair black too?' Jean-Louise informed the circle that Miss Shirley didn't dye her hair because red hair was ugly and people in mourning had to dress ugly. Then one of the infants wanted to know why it was called mourning dress when you had to wear black and shouldn't it be night dress? Of course this set the older children off; imagine Miss Shirley turning up for lessons in her nightgown! Anne chalked it up to experience, but there were triumphs too, and these she relayed with relish. 'Immediately after lunch bell the older children took their seats and the little ones copied them. So I ducked my head though the door and asked them why they were in such a hurry to be indoors on such a glorious day?'

'You're making a rod for your own back, what will you say on the next _glorious_ day when you want them all in their seats?'

'But that's the point of an outdoor school-'

'Oh this outdoor school thing of yours. Newfangled nonsense, it will never take.'

'You keep saying that but you haven't given it a chance. And,' Anne adds, her grey eyes widening saucily, 'you've never yet found an argument against my belief that children have enormous capacities to learn and recall when you teach them in ways that inspire them. Why is it-' she continues over Marilla's loud hurumph, 'that a child of five can recite the rules to the most complicated game, calculate how many lemon drops they need to barter for ten marbles, name the parts of a horse, a buggy, the direction of the wind, remember all the words to a bawdy song that is ten verses long, yet is considered a dunce when he can't write his name in perfect copperplate?'

'Perfect copperplate is useful, the ability to sing Roll Me Over in the Clover is not!' Anne is brought up short by this and her eyes go wider still. Marilla clicks her tongue and pours another cup of tea. 'I wasn't always a middle aged spinster, Miss Shirley, I have heard such songs before.'

'It never occurred to me,' Anne says, truthfully. She hides her flaming cheeks behind her napkin, vainly trying to remember what it was she had been talking about because right now all she can think of is Ruby's face snickering over the goffering iron.

'I believe you were singing the praises of the outdoor school,' says Marilla, straining to contain her smile.

Anne clears her throat and sits taller. 'I've already made some converts,' she says. 'I had Mrs Wilbur White and Mrs Frame come to me after class to congratulate me for the fact that both their sons couldn't wait to go to school tomorrow. Mrs Daniel Sloane wasn't so enthusiastic at first, she said Lily-Aurelia informed her they had been larking about the graveyard all day and hadn't done a lick of work. Then I called Lily over and asked her to please spell perennial, and not only did she manage it, she informed her mother that stinging nettle was a perennial and that it's latin name was rumex. Actually it's urtica dioica but fortunately Mrs Daniel didn't know that. She just beamed as though her daughter had construed one hundred lines of Virgil and wished me well!'

'What on earth were you all doing in the graveyard?' Marilla demands to know.

And she isn't the only one. Josie Pye appears after supper, her embroidered shawl tugged tight around her shoulders in the manner of her mother when she has a piece of her mind to inflict.

Anne slams her Art History book shut and places it on the porch step. 'Josie.'

'Anne.'

Anne remains sitting and stares up at the other girl as she twirls her parasol.

'Aren't you going to invite me in?'

'Did you want to come in?'

'No I do not!' says Josie in grand fashion. 'I've just left Diana Barry in tears after what you've done today-'

Anne leaps to her feet. 'What's wrong with Diana?'

'As if you didn't know. You always have to make everything about you, but I never thought you stoop so low as to do such a thing to your _bosom friend!_ '

'Josie if you don't start making sense and tell me what's happened I'll -I'll-' Anne's eyes fall on the great tome next to her and her hands ball into fists.

'What are you planning to do now, Anne, whack _me_ over the head? That's your answer to everything-'

'And yours is to stick a ribbon on people, and yank it like a chain.'

Josie is very tempted to turn heel and leave. Then she pictures Diana, the way she'd gripped her knees to her chest and refused to meet Josie's eyes. Walking away would never equal the satisfaction Josie would feel by informing Anne Shirley of her wrongdoing. It was practically her duty. 'You were at the graveyard with the pupils from Avonlea school today. Why?'

'What business is that of yours?' Anne hisses.

'It is my business when it hurts a dear friend. Diana was heartbroken, _heartbroken_ , when I told her what you'd done. Martha Wright told me all about it at Lawsons this afternoon. How Miss Shirley wanted them to see themselves as a little band of Avonlea _improvers-'_

'I never said it like that-'

'So it's true!' says Josie gleefully. 'It was Diana's idea to spruce up the graveyard but you couldn't have that could you-'

'She told you about wanting to tidy the graveyard?'

'Of course she told me. Diana and I have become very close. Didn't you know?'

'No, I didn't...'

'I wonder why.'

Anne tastes salt on her lip and realises her nose is running along with her eyes. She presses the heel of her hand into one and sniffs.'I think you'd better go,' she mutters, 'I have to see Diana.'

'Oh don't worry, I'm going... _with_ you.' Josie straightens her shawl so that her crewel work peonies are evenly displayed upon each shoulder, then folds up her parasol and tucks it under her arm. 'What?' she says noting Anne's disbelieving stare. 'You think I'm foolish enough to believe you won't bad mouth me the moment my back is turned. I know you do. Everyone around here thinks you're so sweet and pure-hearted. Gilbert Blythe always going on about how _Anne Shirley_ holds herself above the common girl. Patronising simpleton. But have your secret trysts with him if you must. Just don't think you're anything special, the Gillis girls got there long before you-'

Anne had been holding her tongue lest she draw Marilla to the scene. Now so furious she no longer cares. She marches up to Josie, her eyes so dark only the merest ring of green shows around her pupils. Josie steps back despite herself.

' _I_ am going to see Diana, and _you_ are so ostentatious and ponderous and- and... BIG BOSOMED there's no way you can keep up with me. So why don't you go home to your ugly house and think your ugly thoughts and leave... me... alone!'

Josie purses her lips together, her brows rising smugly. 'A nice way for the Avonlea school mistress to comport herself,' she says. 'Well... aren't you going to tell Marilla where you're off to?'

'There's no need,' says Marilla, appearing at the front door. 'The whole of Avonlea can hear you two cats. Anne, come inside this instant. Josie, I believe you have delivered your message -unless there's something you'd like to add?'

Marilla watches the Pye girl trot down the drive with an unbecoming haste, before retrieving Anne's book and returning inside. Anne is pacing the hallway, her arms crossed, her chin sticking straight out.

'I won't apologise, I won't! I don't care what you say. I'll dig my own pit this time and find the snakes and toads to fill it with, and sit there for all eternity before I ever talk to her again. Why does she hate me so much when she has everything and I-'

'Have nothing? You came back from school today like a girl with the world in her hands. You're not going to let a Pye take it from you, are you?'

'Why not,' Anne says bitterly, 'they have everything else. I don't understand her, Marilla. Josie could go to Redmond tomorrow if she wanted. She's never had to worry about money or watch the people she loves worry over it. Never had someone close to her die, or had to fret over what the oculist says. She's never had to go without-'

'Josie Pye has gone without plenty.'

'Like what?'

'Kindness mostly. That child couldn't walk into a room without her mother finding some fault. One sock would be lower than the other, one curl droopier, her piano playing was never as good as Jane's, her complexion never as clear as Diana's. She was brought up to be envious, to pick faults in others and in herself.'

'So why is Diana friends with her?'

'Because Ebba Barry is as overbearing and suspicious as Mina Pye.'

'You think Diana feels sorry for Josie?'

'More an ally I'd say.'

'Then why does she hate _me?'_

'You already know the answer to that. Come now, the shadows are at the door. Best you get to Orchard Slope before sunset or Ebba will tell you to call another day.'

'You're letting me go?'

'For goodness sake, I only shooed Josie away so she wouldn't follow you!'

Anne discovers Diana at the log bridge. She is sitting on the edge, her kid skin slippers skimming over the surface of the brook. 'I thought you'd come,' she says, without looking up.

'I'll always come to you, Di, and if I don't then it's not for want of trying.'

Anne sits down close to her friend and grips her hand. 'Josie came by-'

'She said she would,' Diana says, with that same even tone that makes Anne want to scream. She stares hard at the water and breathes deeply.

'I want so much to tell you that she's wrong, but... maybe Josie's right.' This gets Diana's attention, she turns to her friend and frowns with incomprehension. 'I thought if I encouraged the children to work on the graveyard it would make you happy.'

'I didn't want someone else to do it,' says Diana, softly, 'I wanted to do it myself.'

'I know that now. I bustled in and took over the way I always do-'

'You don't do that... well maybe a little,' Diana confesses. 'I just want something that is mine before I become someone else's.'

Anne is so surprised she shifts suddenly and plunges into the brook. Cool water streams out of her boots as Diana hauls her up. Anne barely seems to have noticed, all she can say is, 'You're not engaged are you!'

Diana busies herself with the laces on Anne's left foot. 'I should say not. There's not one fellow in all Avonlea who is good enough for me.' She tries to laugh, the sound barely making it past her lips before it dies again. 'But I will be one day, and I think a girl should do at least one thing of consequence before she marries.'

'Is that how you felt about the aprons?'

'Oh Anne, I didn't want Josie's help, but Mrs Pye insisted- I suppose because she couldn't bear for her daughter not to get the credit. At first I just tolerated her, but then I was grateful, and then... I don't know, I had a nice time. Josie can be fun when she wants to be and... she understands parts of me that no one else does.' This last admission is said so quickly Anne can hardly make out the words. 'I also know how horrid she is to you,' Diana admits, wringing out Anne's stocking. 'I felt awful for having a nice time, then awful for not telling you, and then... well, I've been in knots about it ever since.'

'She really likes you, Di.'

'And she really _doesn't_ like you.'

'The feeling is mutual,' Anne retorts, 'and now it's worse. I doubt I'll be welcome at the Avette's now.'

'Well if _you're_ not going then _I'm_ not either.'

'No, you can't! Not after all the work you put into those aprons-'

'Anne, they're aprons,' says Diana sensibly. 'What bothers me is what I'm going to do now.'

'You can help _me!_ '

'What? How?'

'I meant what I said about encouraging my pupils to care for their surrounds and I could really use your help. You could be a sort of teacher's assistant. I couldn't pay you much, it would have to come out of my salary-'

'Pay me? You'd better not try, Anne Shirley. Pay me indeed.'

'As you wish,' Anne says, trying not to sound relieved. She balls her stockings into her boots and helps her friend up, and they head toward Orchard Slope. 'But we'll work out some sort of arrangement. There's bound to be a time you have desperate need for the services of the Avonlea schoolmarm.'

'Oh bound to be,' Diana says, mildly. Never foreseeing that a year from now she will have serious cause to ask for just that.

 **...**

 _* Ok, so it's neither here nor there if you research these notes but the sad-iron with the detachable handle was real, invented and patented in 1870 by Mrs Potts. And if you give up the chance to look up what a goffering iron looks like you are missing out on some serious laughs.  
_

 _* Ditto Roll Me Over in the Clover (and that song was one of the cleaner ones I found. Honestly, these Victorians!)_

 _* the snake pit that Anne threatens to construct is a reference to ch 11 Mrs Rachel Lynde is Properly Horrified, Anne of Green Gables_


	11. hand in hand

Octobers have always held a sacred place in Anne's heart. It's as if the world decided to be redheaded for a while and was just as bursting with possibilities. In what other month are there frosts and warm winds, eruptions of new flowers and boughs weighed down with over-ripened fruit? The vast green fields turn brick coloured again as they give up their potatoes and beets, and the folk of Avonlea come together to give up their time and help their neighbour. All hands are needed, hired men lent out, as well as carts, barrows, and cellar space.

The Green Gables cellar is bursting with its final harvest. The land now belongs to Mr Barry, who arranged for it to be sown with lucern and clover in order to fatten the calves he would purchase in the spring. It's difficult for Marilla to see her brother's fields tilled over and turned into feed. Worse when Mr Barry comes by to inform her that he intends on having the great oak by the brook removed.

'I could remove that old cherry as well,' he adds, pointing to the Snow Queen. 'The canopy's missing its middle. Sure sign of rot. You know what a winter we're in for, Miss Cuthbert. I wouldn't want a rotten tree within fifty yards of my property. I'd cut it down if I was you.'

'But he's not you, is he Marilla?' Anne says to her that evening.

She's ploughing through her own work in the sitting room conscious it must be done tonight. Tomorrow is Sunday, and while Marilla might endure many of Anne's foibles she will not endure that. Anne flings her composition aside and kneels at Marilla's feet, who looks down at her girl wishing not for the first time that Matthew was here to put his oar in. What would he have said? On the one hand George Barry makes a lot of sense; his advice should be taken with the goodwill in which it was given and yet...

'He certainly is not,' says Marilla, finally. 'George Barry may do what he likes with our land but his authority ends at our gate. So like a Barry to want to lop down the whole tree when a careful prune would do.'

'They've been good about Diana, I was half sure Mrs Barry would frown upon her helping out at school.'

'They had no choice after that Prayer Meeting. Ebba was hardly going to keep her daughter at home with every Elder singing her praise-'

'Every Elder except Mr Pye,' Anne says.

Her grey eyes twinkle in the lamplight, filled with an expectation that Marilla is about to divulge some new insight about the Pyes. Marilla knows exactly what Matthew would say now.

'Listen to us falling into gossip. I keep forgetting you're still a child.'

She leans over to pinch Anne's nose -and misses. Anne doesn't notice, it's Marilla's words that have hit their mark. A flush suffuses through her body, so hot she is sure Marilla must be able to feel it when she grasps her hand.

'Marilla...' Anne murmurs, 'can I ask you something?'

Marilla shakes her off and leaves her chair. 'What, are too old for hot milk?' she snaps, fresh fear gripping her about her sight.

'No, I... No.' Anne says, her courage failing her.

'Thank goodness for that,' Marilla says, softening. 'We've had enough changes round here.'

I wouldn't mind one more, Anne thinks. She waits till Marilla leaves the room and then digs out her Art History text from underneath the newspaper. The book is more than five hundred pages long but it always falls open at the same place, because here in the German Renaissance section among etchings by Dürer and the Holbein masterpiece is a ten inch copy of Adam and Eve. Both are dressed in their respective fig leaves. Adam's is huge compared to the bit of twig that covers Eve. Not that she seems to mind, she doesn't even wear her hair over her breasts. They are as large as the apple she holds, as full as her hips and as round as her belly. She has the all voluptuous charms of Diana and Ruby and Josie; nothing at all like the sylphlike girl who beholds her.

Unconsciously Anne brings her hands to her own breasts. She cups them firmly hoping to find some undiscovered fullness, and winces. Lately they've been exquisitely tender, other times inexplicably itchy. And not only there. Right where Eve wears her bit of twig Anne is sometimes overwhelmed by this terrible need to... not scratch exactly but close to it. It was especially bad last night and Anne had given in. The moment she'd done so she had the sensation of a warm flood pulsing through her and quickly lit her candle and examined her fingers thinking -hoping- she had finally begun to bleed. Nothing so sensational had happened; nothing to be seen but that same mysterious triangle between her thighs.

This triangle has become a recent source of worry because no matter how closely Anne studies the painting Eve doesn't seem to have one. Maybe it's true and red heads really are unnatural? Or maybe Mrs Lynde is right and her 'booksmarts' are turning her into a man? Because Gilbert has hair there. In that region at least. Anne had seen it the day he was washing up; a faint line of curls beginning at his navel and disappearing into his trousers. And Anne is tall like a man, and has small breasts like a man, and she's been thinking about kissing a lot. And kisses are something that girls are supposed to repel and boys are supposed to steal. Yet Gilbert hadn't tried to kiss her once, though Ruby said he'd kissed every girl in Avonlea which is why he had to move to White Sands.

The hot milk sticks in her throat but she forces it down lest Marilla thinks she is sickening, and quickly bids her goodnight. With every step Anne imagines it is Gilbert's face she treads upon. She knows she is being ridiculous, as ridiculous as Diana when she goes on about how much she despises Fred Wright, but it satisfies all the same.

If Anne saw Fred's expression at church the next morning she wouldn't have felt so superior. His face looks like it's been boiled in beetroot. This happened after Diana stopped to admire the football sized chrysanthemum one of the Avonlea young fry had given to her. An earwig had crept out from a curled up petal and crawled onto her bangle. Diana yelped and Fred was by her side before Anne knew what had happened. Deftly and with extraordinary care Fred pinched the creature between his thumb and finger and held it up. The earwig wriggled, it's pincer opening and closing. Of course Diana would think he was dangling it in front of her on purpose. 'Brute!' she said, just as Charlie knocked it from his hand and squashed it under his shiny brogues. 'Murderer!' was the next word to come out of her mouth, and she wasn't looking at Charlie as she said it.

Gilbert slips past his folks and slings an arm round his chum. 'Tant pis, Tourtiere, she likes you really.'

Fred throws him off and hurumphs. Gil takes it for granted that the adoration shown to him extends to all his friends. But he is blessed with a face that makes girls go silly, and is tall and clever besides. Fred is short, the shortest in his family anyway. He has three younger brothers who are all so different looking, the joke was they must have been fathered by different men. Fred's hair and eyes are sandy brown; his voice husky like his build. He's as compact as a meat-pie, with the darting fists of a pugilist. Because the eldest Wright boy means to ensure that no one makes that joke again.

'You wait,' Gilbert says. 'I bet you your new blue cap when Diana gets to the gate she checks to see if you're still looking.'

'Or to moon over you.'

'Boy, you are gone. Was I this bad when I was seventeen?'

Fred isn't listening. He rubs his brown hand over his chin. 'What do I get if I take your bet?' he says.

Gilbert laughs. 'What do you get? Fred, you get Diana Barry. Now turn your mug to the church gate and watch.'

Josie Pye is watching too. She yanks on the sleeve of Fred's brown wool jacket just as he catches Diana's eye.

'Fred, I'm glad I caught you. Can we go some place where _this_ one won't hear -it's about a certain person's birthday,' Josie says, eyeing Gilbert all the while.

'My birthday was four days ago,' says Gilbert.

'Who said anything about _your_ birthday?' she retorts. 'Honestly if his head was any bigger he'd need a new hat.'

'He's getting one,' says Fred, as Gilbert saunters away. 'Now how can I help you, Lady President?'

'Actually,' she says, 'I was thinking I could help you...'

Of course Josie never mentions birthdays, nor offers any help, and a week later Fred is wondering how he has got himself tangled in another Pye scheme. Today is his first free afternoon since harvest began, he should be playing football or helping Claude build his sled. Yet here he is sawing planks into points on what will probably be the last fine Saturday of the year. The torture is alleviated -or perhaps made worse- every time Diana marches over to collect another picket. She never looks at him, nor speaks, but the sweet scent of her cologne is enough. Fred sucks it up greedily as he works the saw, his hand still burning from the time they accidentally touched when they went for the same tool.

'I wish he would leave,' says Diana, tossing her black braid over her shoulder. She has to turn her head to manage it and ends up catching his eye again. 'Every time I look at him he's looking at me-'

'So stop looking,' Anne says. She dunks her brush into the whitewash and flicks droplets of paint over Diana. Diana squeals, and Fred looks over again.

'I wouldn't _have_ to look at him if _you_ hadn't invited him. I know we needed help with the graveyard fence, but honestly Anne, did it have to be Fred?'

Anne bends over to shake her collar free of the sawdust Diana has stuffed down it. She tries to respond but coughs instead.

'Sorry Anne, what did you say?'

'I said I-' Anne stops and coughs again. This time on purpose. If Diana didn't invite Fred and she definitely didn't, then who did? Surely it wasn't Fred's idea, he hasn't an ounce of imagination. Someone must have put the idea into his head. But why...

'I'm out of wood,' he calls. His table was set up some distance from the girls, and he slowly strides over. 'Shall I go or did you still need me?'

Diana's dark eyes narrow. 'We don't need you, we _never_ needed you,' she says hotly.

'Fine by me,' Fred says. 'Just keep goin' the way you're goin' and you'll have that fence up by say... this time next year.'

'Says you!'

'Happens I do,' says Fred, aware that he has the advantage for once. He squats down to retrieve a heavy iron tool at Diana's feet -and sneaks a look at her ankles. 'Why aren't you using this?' he asks her, holding up the plane.

'I don't need big bulky tools when simple light ones will do.'

'And how long's it taking to sand them all?'

'Not too long, look,' Anne interrupts, pointing to her painted pickets drying in the sun.

Fred goes over to inspect one and guffaws. 'They're full of splinters and jagged edges-'

'I got rid of the worst of them-' Diana whines.

'And I painted the rest down,' Anne says, crossly.

Fred returns to their table and plants his hands on his hips. 'Do you want to do it fast or do you want to do it right?'

Diana goes beet red this time. 'Show Anne how to do it then, my wrist is tired!'

She stomps over to the graveyard, Fred gets a peek of her red petticoat as she lifts her skirts to step over the fallen down fence. When he looks up again she is sitting cross legged with two small children who have appeared from nowhere. Anne plops her paintbrush into the can, eager for a break. They have made good progress since Fred took over the planing. The paint is going on a lot easier and a line of neat new pickets gleam whitely in the afternoon sun.

She retrieves a sandwich from her bag and offers half to Fred. He finishes it in two bites and says shyly, 'The young fry really dote on her. She'll make a fine mother one day.'

'She makes a fine teacher right now,' Anne says. 'Better than fine, I've learned more in the last month about how to teach than I did from a whole year at Queens.'

'I always thought you were the brain?'

'That's just it. I've discovered it takes more than a diploma to be a good teacher. I had this theory that if I befriended the children they would learn all the things I'm passionate about without even realising, but half the time they take no notice.'

'Half the time's not so bad. I never took notice in class.'

'Then it's lucky you never had Diana because she doesn't tolerate the least infraction. At first I didn't like her being so strict, then I saw how the children respected her for it. They want rules -they adore rules. More importantly they yearn for someone to have high expectations of them. Whenever she comes to school they go out of their way to impress their beloved Miss Barry.'

At first Fred thought he would burst out laughing at Anne's idea of luck, but the more she talked the more he got thinking. 'Don't you ever get jealous?' he asks in the space where Anne has taken a breath. 'I mean you worked so hard, got that scholarship, and then here's Diana who left school at thirteen-'

'Jealous? Never. If anything it makes me mad.' Anne sighs and lies back in the grass they're sitting on. Fred prefers to lie on his side so that he can watch Diana. 'We all worked so hard at Queens perfecting our Greek and memorising Tennyson and killing ourselves over Euclid, but none of that matters if you can't get a child to listen to you. You should have seen Di's face,' Anne snorts, then giggles, 'when she discovered the Key Texts-'

'The what-'

'You remember, Mr Phillips 'special library' that he kept locked up in his cupboard? All teachers have them, even Miss Stacey. They contain the answers to every problem we're expected to set.'

'All the times I broke into Phillips' cupboard to get back whatever he'd confiscated I never once thought to look in those books. If only I had-'

'That's just what Diana said -not about breaking in-' Anne wants to make that clear but Fred doesn't care. His body might be earthbound but his soul is soaring at the discovery that he and Diana have had the same wicked thought. He rolls onto his stomach and smiles while Anne continues her chatter. Seems like Gil is right again, Anne Shirley really is an interesting girl. He starts to curl and uncurl the wood shavings that have fallen into the long grass, until he realises he has stopped listening and sits himself up. 'And she's right, too,' Anne is saying. 'What's the point of going to Queens if you're only going to be presented with a book of answers at the end? That's why I feel so mad, because Diana would make a wonderful teacher...'

Anne pauses to watch the boy opposite her arrange curls of pine into a rudimentary rose. Gilbert's right, underneath his grubby overalls and gaudy checked shirts Fred Wright is unexpectedly softhearted. They both look up to see Diana before them, her hands wrapped in the smaller, chubbier ones of Jim and Hank Boulter.

'Sorry Anne, but I'll have leave you to it. These two need someone to walk them home.'

'Cousin Cal was gonna take us to the pond to hunt for that catfish-' says the taller one.

The two girls look blank, while Fred nods sagely. 'Did a runner, did he?'

'He saw Nate Glover and took off!' Hank answers

'Now we got to find our way back to Uncle Levi's,' says Jim. His bottom lip starts to wobble and he lifts a corner of Diana's apron and wipes his nose on it. 'We gotta go by the haunted house... I don't wanna go by the haunted house...'

'Now, now Jim, if you talk like that I won't take you. Haunted house. There's no such thing!' Diana catches Anne's eye as she says this, and gives her the tiniest wink.

'I could take you. We've finished up here, ain't we, Anne? I got some business with the Boulters, it'd be no trouble...' Fred says, reddening again. Trust _ain't_ to slip out of his big mouth.

'But I want Miss Barry to walk us!' says Jim.

'And I want _him_ to walk us,' says Hank. 'You're Claude's big brother, I know. You're building a four man sled.'

'How about I walk you?' Fred offers, grabbing hold of Hank's other hand, 'and Jim walks with Miss Barry?'

His red cheeks dimple as he grins at Diana, but it's his eyes that give him away this time. Anne looks away, conscious of every word he is not saying and begins to sweep sawdust into her hand. Not that it matters, the moment Fred leaves with the Boulter boys cleaning up will be the last thing on their minds. Who can think of that when there is 'That Look' to discuss! She can scarcely wait for Fred to go.

The surprise on her face needs no describing when Diana begins to gather her things. 'You're _going?'_ Anne exclaims.

'Not a word,' Diana whispers. 'Not one. I'll tell you everything when I get back.' She is trying to sound unaffected but her excitement is unmistakable.

Anne stands there bewildered, watching the four of them head toward Carmody Road. When they get to the other side of the street Fred turns around and hollers at her.

'Hey Anne, I nearly forgot! Gil says he can't come by tonight. He says you'll know what I mean!'

For once Anne is grateful for her small breasts because her heart begins to beat so fast she doubts her chest could support much more. She waves at them weakly and tries to smile.

Diana does not smile back.

 **...**

 _* the painting of Adam and Eve I was thinking about is one by Lucas Cranach the elder (1528)._

 _* tourtiere is a traditional meat-pie from Quebec. It's also Fred's nickname. Tant pis means 'too bad'._

 _* 'I've learned more about teaching in the last month...' was a tip of the hat to a similar line said by Gilbert in ch 7 Anne of Avonlea._


	12. Plenty in the Maize

Winter comes early and hits hard; by early November the Birch Path is a trench of frozen mud. The first day Diana hobbles home with a twisted ankle marks her last day at Avonlea School. She is forbidden to return until Spring, perhaps not at all. There are plenty of other honourable pursuits for Mrs Barry's daughter to devote herself to. The Avettes are piecing together a Christmas Quilt and plan to raffle it off to raise money for the hospital in Charlottetown. Gertie (coral for fundraising) has sold nearly forty tickets. She could have sold more if Anne hadn't gone round canvassing all Avonlea in order to pay for her precious picket fence. Of course Diana tagged along too, but the whole enterprise had Anne Shirley written all over it. Who does she think she is? Everyone knows that fixing the fence is the Blythe's responsibility.

'Mother says John Blythe always maintained it when he was a bachelor,' says Gertie, slicing her shears though a length of felt, 'then he got married and all of that stopped.'

'Because Abner Sloane dug a grave for his aunt and her horse on the Blythe property,' says Jane. 'When he refused to fill it in Mr Blythe erected a fence to mark the farm's boundary. They haven't cared for the graveyard since.'

'Very _unchristian_ of them, don't you think?' says Em, giving Gertie a sidelong glance.

Ruby sighs. 'Oh, I see where you're going with this,' she says, stabbing her pincushion. 'The old 'Mrs Blythe is a witch' thing again. Laws, I detest the winter, it turns everyone into the worst sort of bore.'

'Well what _do_ they do at those Ladies Meets?' Gertie persists. 'Sounds unnatural to me.' It's on the tip of Ruby's tongue to respond with, Like the Avettes you mean! But she manages to keep this irony to herself. The Pye girls are getting a sewing machine for Christmas and Ruby needs to keep on good terms with them until she's had a chance to use it. 'I'll find out all about it soon enough,' she says, complacently. 'Myra never could keep a secret -and neither can I. She's taken Oren _back._ They're getting married after all! Mama's insisting on a short engagement in case she changes her mind again. It's set for Christmas Eve.'

Now the Avettes have something new to talk about. A wedding is almost as gossip-worthy as a funeral. The pincushion is punctured mercilessly as the girls drop their squares and crowd round Ruby -if the five in attendance can be called a crowd. Alice and Prillie are snowed in, Laura isn't speaking to Josie, Minette is forbidden because her folks think a raffle sounds too much like gambling, and Diana and Carrie have been summoned to the Gillis house with a selection of their smartest dresses.

Diana stands on the kitchen table while the hem of her blue sateen in unpicked. Myra Gillis wants dark haired attendants at her wedding -the better to accentuate her white blonde hair. She rubs the blue fabric between her fingers and pouts.

'I wonder if I wouldn't prefer my bridesmaids to wear pink, Mama. Pink becomes me so _ravishingly._ If I can't have plum blossom on my wedding day it would be fitting for the girls to wear it.

Luella Gillis makes cooing sounds through the pins between her lips. Ebba Barry suppresses a sigh. She's already returned to Orchard Slope once so that Myra could compare Diana's cashmere cape with her fox fur pom-pom shawl.

'I have a pink dress,' says Carrie, unhelpfully.

She retrieves her basket from under the table and pulls out a rose coloured concoction of velvet and lace. Myra swoons with undisguised envy; Mrs Barry launches herself from her chair.

'Right, so it's back to Orchard Slope.' She tugs on her coat and says to Diana, 'Is your pink organdie still in your closet or did you put it away with your summer wardrobe?'

Diana's eyes go wide. She's certain she told her mother she had passed some things to Anne last summer, well almost certain. But what if she forgot? Mamma is bound to be furious and lock her new book away for a week.

Fortunately for the Barry women the Gillis sisters have a subscription to Harper's Bazaar, which states categorically that no one who is anyone wears organdie after September. By two o'clock it's settled that the bridesmaids will definitely wear blue. Besides Carrie's pink dress is prettier than the bridal gown and Myra could never have that.

Diana is all frowns as they leave the Gillis'. The sun glowers like a great eye behind a bank of cloud, but that's not the reason for her sullen expression. She avoids the swept path and makes satisfying stomps through the virgin snow on the lawn.

Anne is at the gate huddling under a Welsh blanket in the Cuthbert's green-painted sleigh.

'What are you doing here?' Diana exclaims.

'Coming for you. That's right isn't it, Mrs Barry, you said I might take Diana for a ride on the first fine afternoon, once I'd learned how to manage the sleigh? It's wonderfully fun, Diana. Only we must keep to the cleared roads, Finicky tires out quickly if the snow's any deeper than a foot.'

'Well, I- well...' says Diana, looking at her mother, who is attempting to bury Minnie-May in the beaver-fur rug.

'If you must,' says Mrs Barry. 'I did say you might go on the first fine day and I'm bound to keep my word. Though how Marilla allows it-'

'But, Mamma, I promised Myra I would make those beaded fringes for our gloves and the wedding is only four days away.'

Anne flinches. She still hasn't got used to Diana snubbing her like this. No it isn't snubbing, it isn't as obvious or as consistent as that. Sometimes things are the way they always are and the two of them fall into giggles or comfortable silences, and Anne is filled with sweet relief that Diana's bursts of indifference are over for good. Then there are moments like this, unpredictable, excruciating moments, when Diana makes excuses not to be with her. That she would rather string beads on this rare afternoon than go for a ride in her sleigh is more grievous to Anne than anything Josie might do. Her face goes so white even Mrs Barry notices.

'You promised to go with Anne before any promise to Myra Gillis. Minnie-May can make those beaded gee-gaws, heaven knows she makes enough of them for her friends.' Minnie-May pokes her tongue out at her sister and kicks off her blanket. Their mother sighs and gives Anne a tight lipped smile. 'Diana's in need of a dose of fresh air. I'm forever finding her head in a book, she's quite as bad as she was before you came to Avonlea. So mind you keep to the clear roads and be home by four at the latest. I won't vouch for Marilla's opinion, she's letting you away with all sorts at the moment, but I'm not having my daughter out alone at night.'

'Now you mention it, Mrs Barry,' Anne utters mechanically, 'I did promise Marilla I'd go to the post office -she's expecting a letter from the... oculist-'

'Oh Anne, I'll come with you!' Diana says, repentance ringing in her voice. 'I could hold your horse while you go in, save you hitching her at the blacksmiths.'

'Thank you, Diana, but Finicky would never tolerate you holding the reins. She'd buck or worse, drag you halfway to Grafton. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you.'

Whether it's because her hands are shaking or whether she shakes them deliberately Anne isn't sure. What she does know is that, true to her name, Finicky decides to she wants to bolt. Anne is half way down Newbridge Road before she notices she is crying and is wandering through the Secret Garden before she finally stops. The horse is tethered in a sheltered spot at the entrance to the spruce forest then Anne secures her snow shoes, crying all the harder when she sees the extra pair she had brought for Diana. Not even her nose can console her as a silvery string of snot comes out and sticks to her sheepskin mittens. Anne rubs them into the powdery snow then falls into it heavily. Or tries to. It's difficult to fall forward when you're wearing snow shoes. So she falls sideways because she has to fall, no one could be this heartbroken and remain standing.

The cold hits her like a slap in the face, shocking her out her tears. Slowly, miserably, she gets to her feet, then almost falls to her knees again. The garden looks enchanted. Crystals of ice in geometric shapes that even Euclid couldn't fathom spark from every surface. Some like stars, some like blades, some like tiny white flowers. In the midst of all this is a magnificent weeping willow. Its branches are smothered in a diamond-like crust which fall in glassy whips towards the crisp white-dusted ground. Anne moves toward it reverently; the garden so hushed by the carpet of the snow she barely makes a sound. She has the sense she is floating and parts the crispened lengths of willow to enter what looks like a palace of ice. Under the canopy it is dim and silent like a secret within a secret. She rubs her hands upon the trunk and touches her cheek upon it.

'How can I despair when you exist?' she murmurs, wrapping her arms around it. 'Forgive me, dear willow. You must have been here all along and I never saw you till now...'

Anne thinks back on the other occasions she has come here. She can't remember there ever being such a tree, and in such an obvious spot too, right in the middle of the garden. It's not possible. Perhaps she's still sitting outside the Gillis' lost in the dream she was having, and any moment Diana will come and rouse her from her waking sleep...

Or perhaps she can just _ask_ her!

Because when Anne pulls her face away from the trunk she realises she has kissed a neatly hewn heart that has recently been carved into the bark of the tree. And there, with the steady hand of someone who knows his way around a set of tools the word, _Déesse_.

There's only one boy who could have made this. But that means _he._.. and that means _she_... The answer is so painful Anne can't bring herself to think it, but comes to her anyway because she never learned how to cut out pain before pain cuts her. And this hurts, it sucks the breath from her lungs and she leans against the trunk, trying to make sense of the fact that Diana brought someone else to _their_ Secret Garden. Anne hadn't even _told_ anyone about it. Not even Gilbert, though he had shared all of his secrets with her: where to find the last of the red currents; how to start a fire from the bits of lint in her coat pocket. He reckons he's found a source of bilberries too, but he is keeping that to himself until he's certain he can get them for her.

All Anne has managed to give him is a cheats method for starching collars and a fail proof recipe for cornbread. They cooked it on the stove at school. The school house provides the perfect place for the two of them to work undisturbed. They meet there on Saturday mornings to discuss their Art History assignments and end with a practical lesson in housekeeping. A smile tugs at Anne's lips despite her breaking heart. She's come to look forward to these mornings more than she wants to admit. Now that Diana is kept at home and Dora is spending more time with Marilla, Anne can't help but count the days till she sees Gilbert again.

It comes as a great disappointment when they meet the following Saturday and he tells her he won't be going to Fred's New Year's Eve party. His new chums at White Sands are insisting he attend their spree, and while he's had many a bonfire at Fred's place he's curious about what they get up to in a bigger town. White Sands has four times the population of Avonlea, and it doubles again when rich families from the mainland and the States come over for the Summer. It has two hotels and a music hall that puts on a show every week. Over Christmas they are performing something called a pantomime, where the boys dress up as girls and the girls dress up as boys.

That afternoon Anne looks at her reflection in Diana's winged mirror and wishes she lived in White Sands instead. She would have won a role as a boy without trying. She presses her hand against her ribs and sucks in her stomach, studying her figure from every angle. Perhaps her breasts have grown a little, or perhaps it's the new corset Marilla is insisting she wear, which far from flattening her down makes the little she has jut out even further.

Diana comes into the room with a tray of tiny cakes and hot chocolate -real hot chocolate not that powdery stuff- and pastries made from butter and cream which is five times the price now that winter has set in. Anne swiftly removes her hand and perches on Diana's bed, noticing for the first time that Miss Polly isn't there.

'Oh that! I gave her to Minnie-May.' Diana laughs as a drop of whipped cream falls onto her chin; she knows exactly who would adore the chance to wipe that off. 'So, darling, is there anything in my closet that takes your fancy? I know you'll probably fight me but I would adore to see you in red, and the velvet gown I wore last Christmas would look divine on you. It has that empire line, remember? I thought it would skim over my belly and make me look slimmer but Minnie-May said I looked like Mary _before_ she'd birthed the infant Christ. You really need to be a slip of a thing to wear a style like that. Won't you try it on -just for fun,' she adds when she sees the look on Anne's face, 'you know, like we used to?'

'Diana, I'm in mourning I can't go to a party.'

'But it's been six months and you said you'd think about it and who knows when we'll have another chance to attend a gathering with no grown-ups? Except Granny Girard, of course, but she goes to bed at six o'clock and sleeps through anything. Fred said one time Robert lit a firecracker under her bed and she never even stirred! Please Anne you've just _got_ to come, how will I explain it if you don't? Marilla allows you do what you like, Mamma will be awful suspicious if she learns you're not going-'

'Is that why you want me to go?' Anne cuts in, 'is that the _only_ reason?'

'What's wrong with that?' says Diana, sharply.

Anne's heart is in her throat, or rather words are. Ones that have been bursting to come out since the day she discovered the french term for goddess carved into the willow tree. She rises from the bed and catches sight of her face in the mirror. Strange she should look so angry when she feels so sad.

'I don't see why I need to go when Frederic Wright will be there-'

'And I see why you _don't_ want to go when Gilbert Blythe isn't going either!'

Anne backs away with the nasty realisation that Diana is bursting to say something, too. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You and Gilbert have been meeting secretly for months! How could you, Anne? I would have told you _everything_ about Fred-'

'But you didn't, did you?' Anne counters. 'You said the two of you walked to the Boulters and went your separate ways... but it can't be true. Because I saw what he carved on the willow tree that day you wouldn't come for a sleigh ride-'

'I _did_ try to come with you-'

'Not hard enough!'

'And you didn't try hard enough to tell me about Gilbert. How long have you been courting?'

'Courting? Diana he's never even tried to kiss me.'

'Ha ha, Anne. Everyone knows he's crazy about you!'

'You don't know what you're talking about. Gilbert doesn't think of me like that.'

'Oh Anne, why wouldn't he? You're smarter and more interesting than any other girl on the Island.'

'I am?'

'Don't you know it, isn't Gilbert Blythe telling you a thousand times a day?'

'No, we- we just talk about art mostly. And poetry and geography and astronomy and how to keep meat from spoiling, and how to make a pudding from leftover rice and where to find the sweetest needles for pine needle tea and-'

'That's it?'

'Well what do you and Fred talk about?'

Diana shoves the tray out of her way and slumps onto the bed. The hot chocolate slops from her cup and fills the gold rimmed saucer. She tries to think of one conversation she's had with Fred that has lasted for more than a minute and hasn't been stopped with a kiss.

'We don't really talk,' she says, blushing.

Anne sits next to her and grasps her hand. 'Oh Diana has he kissed you?' Diana nods. 'On the mouth?' Lots of nods. 'Well...' Anne mutters, 'I suppose you find it hard to talk in that case.'

Diana lays her head on Anne's shoulder and nestles into her neck. 'I wanted to tell you, darling, but then I'd get so mad. I kept waiting for you to say _one_ thing about what you and Gil were up to. And it felt so humiliating hearing about it second-hand from someone else-'

'Who? Not Gil?'

'Josie knew all about it... Fred let a few things slip- and the Gillis girls can scarcely talk of anything else. You know half the folks on Newbridge Road have you two practically married off.'

'He doesn't want a wife,' Anne says, quietly.

'Who doesn't?'

'Gilbert. He told his mother he is never getting married.'

'What a strange thing to say,' Diana utters -though she really means what a cruel thing to say. What's a girl supposed to think when a boy tells her that? She doesn't let Anne know this, however. She summons her cheekiest grin, looks her friend in the eye and says, 'Wait till Ruby hears-'

'That's what I said,' Anne says, returning her smile. 'Oh I've missed you, Di. I spent a whole year in Charlottetown living away from you but you've never felt further from me than you have these past few weeks.'

'Don't I know it. So what do you say, will you come to the party? I need you, Anne, I'm half afraid of what I might do if I don't have my angel to guide me. _Please_ say you'll come.'

'Well if you put it that way,' Anne says, laughing. 'But I utterly refuse to wear red!'

 **...**

 _* déesse as mentioned in the story is French for goddess.  
_

Thank you for your thoughtful and honest comments about the last chapter. I know some of you won't know what to say about things like periods etc, others might flat out refuse and that's cool too. All the same it's incredibly reassuring to know there are readers out there who were moved by what I wrote. That's all I'm hoping for when I write, not to give you some big moral, but to have you come away from the story thinking, I'm not the only one.

love, k.


	13. Red with spirted purple, foxlike

Anyone who has topped an Entrance Exam or won a Scholarship knows there is one essential item to bring to a party. And that's a book. Marilla doesn't share this opinion; if the baffling girl wants to study she had much better do it at home. Anne thought she would have to smuggle her Art History book under her cloak but on the afternoon of the party Marilla is called to the Lyndes. The people of Avonlea have had to do without Rachel's opinion for more than a month because her husband dared to get sick. It began with a bout of laryngitis, which might have been cured in its early stages had it not taken two weeks for Rachel to notice that Thomas had lost his voice. He's now catarrhal and his wife aghast that he got himself a new illness before using up the remedy for the old one. The man needs steam and lots of it, which is why Marilla and Martin set off for the Lyndes with a sleigh full of chopped up wood.

Anne had planned to drive herself to the Wrights and has to squeeze in with the Andrews clan instead. They arrive early and the girls head straight to the kitchen, hovering reluctantly while Granny Girard stirs her cod liver oil and goat's milk in a battered copper pot. Fred has gone to Orchard Slope to collect Diana. His cousin Rob is in the parlour hanging mistletoe. A big dump of snow is coming and no girl is going to huddle round a bonfire in weather like that. The Wright boys plan to warm things up and mistletoe is the least of it. Rob has a book of his own; _Manly Exercises and Various In-Door and Out-Door Pursuits_. It's an indoor pursuit that interests him. A parlour game from France called, 'Patipata, Who Shall Kiss That?' Played right and a body could expect lips all over his person. Played wrong and the lampshade or the armchair would receive the kiss. And if the Patipata refused? Well, that meant a forfeit and no one wants to risk that.

'So, who's first?' Fred asks later that night. He has some doubts about this game of Rob's. Sure he likes the idea; he's also fairly certain that Diana Barry will not. But the boy with the fiddle has gone home early, they've eaten all the food, the snow doesn't look like it's going to let up, and it's only half past nine. He sets a dining chair in the middle of the room. 'Someone sits here and wears the blindfold,' he explains, 'and someone else volunteers to be their... Patipati-'

'Patipat _a!'_ says Charlie in disgust. 'And I for one refuse to participate. It unhygenic for one. It's also French, demeaning, unchivalrous, and excites libidinous thoughts-'

'Not only thoughts!' says Ephraim, cackling. 'What do you say, Laura, you never refuse a kiss!'

'Only yours!' says Laura, unconvincingly. She stands up and scurries to the other side of the room.

'I think Fred should go first,' says her brother, Joe.

Diana gives Fred a furtive glance and shakes her head. Fred mimes an answer right back. It seems he'd rather like it if she were his Patipata and proves it by pointing all over himself. The rest of the room eye them eagerly, awaiting Diana's response. Her lips purse together and she shuffles closer to Anne.

'What is it, Di?' she asks, her finger pausing on the introductory paragraph to the Azuchi-Momoyama period. Diana nods in the direction of the chair. 'Oh that,' Anne says. 'I'll do it.'

She loosens the lilac ribbon tied round her head and puts it between the pages of her book. Diana watches her with equal measures of admiration and guilt.

'I didn't mean for _you_ to do it,' she whispers.

'I don't mind. I only have to wear a blindfold and point, I'd much rather that than the actual kissing. In fact I've half a mind to point at things so despicable no one will want to go next.'

Anne winks and goes to her seat, taking in the surroundings of the Wright's parlour, particularly its grimier corners. The dusty hearth, the panting bloodhound, Isaac's boots, Mary-Ellen's fingernails...

'Who's got a blindfold?' says Ruby.

'Who's gonna put themselves near _her_ -hide the slates boys!' Sam Jr calls out.

Anne ignores him and slips Dora's fringed shawl from her shoulders. 'I'll just use this,' she says, twisting it tightly and wrapping it round her eyes.

As she works a knot at the back of her head the room goes quiet. At first Anne thinks the silence has some relation to her lack of sight, but that can't be right, hearing is supposed to get stronger not weaker when you can't see. More than likely she is about to become the victim of some unforeseen prank and she calls out to Diana for reassurance.

'No darling, you're... fine-'

'Better than fine,' Dwight drools, 'Anne Shirley's fairly blooming!'

'More like sprouting -oof!' Ephraim utters, clutching the back of his head.

'Shut your mouth or I'll make you shut it,' Fred orders. 'Alright lads, time to choose the Patipat _a_. Not a sound now -not one,' he adds, glaring at Ephraim, 'we don't want Anne to know who you are. So, who's it gonna to be?'

Anne sits there expecting to wait a while. The only boy who might have gone near her is Charlie Sloane and he's probably left the room. Anne tries to feel sorry about this. She wants to like Charlie, she really does. He is earnest and odd just like she is. Where she has red hair and freckles he has bulging eyes and a receding chin; where she bears the disgrace of being an orphan, he bears the ignominy of being a Sloane. He likes reading too; poetry (the tedious sort) and novels (the improving sort) and models himself on the English gentleman, down to the fluffy bits of hair by his ears he calls sideburns.

Anne knows people make fun of him just like they make fun of her, and reasons they ought to be friends. The fact he refused to play this game should have impressed her and yet... she doesn't like him. When he holds her hand she stiffens, when he asks her to dance she offers the shortest one. His entire presence makes her stiff and uncomfortable which in turn makes her feel she should be even nicer to him. Her smiles were always huge, her laughter over-long, but all the time Anne would be counting the seconds until she could get away. She makes up her mind to look for him after the game is over and ask about his mother's sciatica. In the mean time she waits certain the rest of the boys are staring at their shoes.

In a way she is right, they are staring. But not at their shoes.

When Anne surmised her breasts had grown she wasn't wrong, and in Diana's once-pink-now-lilac gown they rise from her collar like milky moons. Six months have passed since she first tried it on and the buttons on the bodice no longer meet. Anne decided to remove her corset and met with some success, what she didn't take into account is that an unfettered bosom never stays put. After spending most of the night cross-legged by the fire she doesn't realise how much has escaped. There is nothing improper about her appearance; Josie and Ruby show just as much as Anne. What makes the Avonlea young-folk stare is the fact that this comely girl in the light summer gown is the same freakishly clever, black-clad schoolmarm, Anne Shirley. It doesn't seem possible, and if Anne had taken her blindfold off she would have said the same. There isn't a boy, bar Fred, who doesn't have his hand up.

Despite his previous tirade Charlie's hand shoots up, too. Fred selects him for the same reason Diana would: he seems the least likely to gawp. Charlie nods smugly as though he and Fred have a secret arrangement. _Of course_ he'd been chosen, Anne would have told Diana who would have told Fred. It all made perfect sense and justified why he sacrificed his moral code to rescue her from this predicament. He steps over Dwight, then Billy, tripping up at the last so that he almost falls into Anne's lap.

Anne hears shallow breathing and has a nasty inkling. Then smells the odour of oil of clove and she knows. Her whole self is overwhelmed with the urge to get away from him, or at least make him beg for a forfeit. 'Pap- pat- Patipata, who shall kiss that?' she stammers, pointing to what she hopes is Sam Jr.

Charlie duly looks where Anne is pointing, which disappointingly is his cousin, Em. He shuffles over on his knees and kisses her hand then returns to the haven of Anne's lap. This time he clutches her ankle as well. Anne would dearly like to send him to Fred's slobbery dog. Instead she points to a lamp stand, the sofa, the leg of a table, another cousin. The Avonlea youth giggle or sigh with relief and Anne begins to think this game really is just harmless fun. Then the silk tassels of the shawl start to tickle her nose. 'Patipata, who shall kiss that?' she says, and sneezes.

Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth and she hears Diana cry, 'No- Anne!' In the next moment Charlie has pressed himself between Anne's knees. She smells his breath coming out in agitated bursts, feels a hand creeping up her thigh, hears someone whistle and another try to smother their laughter. Charlie means to kiss _her!_ She is about to receive her first kiss right here in front of everyone, from sticky, stinky Charlie Sloane! Anne leaps up and tears off her blindfold. 'No, no! I wasn't pointing at myself, I sneezed-'

'Sorry Anne,' says Rob, 'rules are rules.'

'Then I forfeit!' Anne exclaims, 'I can do that, can't I? If I don't want to do it I can ask for a forfeit!'

Diana, Jane and Ruby gasp collectively. Only a ninny asks for a forfeit, everyone knows they are ten times worse. They all look at Josie. Earlier in the evening she had offered to write up the forfeits and put them in a bowl. What no one knows is the punishments are all the same. The penitent must spend seven minutes in the Wright's cupboard under the stairs; the joke being that anyone who wants to join them can ask for a forfeit, too.

Anne is lead away from the room and is about to enter her cell when Diana dashes over bearing Anne's enormous book.

'Darling, will you survive do you think? You can say no, you know-'

'As if I would. Only a coward backs out of a forfeit.' Anne's chin rises higher and Diana responds with a nod of respect.

'Here, I brought your book, in case you want something to read in there.'

Anne looks at it longingly then gives a determined shake of her head. 'Thank you, Diana but no. I shall do the forfeit as it's meant to be done -in any case I doubt they'll give me a candle.'

The two girls embrace as though they were being parted for seven months instead of seven minutes. Diana mentions how grown up Anne looks in the once-pink-now-lilac gown, Anne says Diana's dark eyes have never been sparklier than they are tonight. Then the penitent enters the cupboard and the little door is bolted shut. Half a minute into Anne's banishment the small door opens and Charlie Sloane is pushed inside. Anne's heart sinks as she hears the bolt slide shut again.

'Oh Anne,' Charlie murmurs, 'I couldn't bear to think of you shut in here... in the dark... all alone... by yourself... I had to make sure that you were alright. I feel this is all my fault, I should have protected you, I should have spoken up on your behalf, and now you'll never forgive me. Well I want you to know I deserve it, Anne, I'm a buffoon of the highest order and if you never want to speak to me again, though it would crush me to lose your kindness, I do understand. You're too good for me, no matter what anyone says. You're- you're- untouchable...'

Poor Charlie. He means well, it isn't his fault he's so awkward and over-eager... But _that_ is! Anne thinks as his clammy hand squeezes her waist.

'There, there,' he says, shyly. 'Don't be coy. We're alone now.' His face comes closer, his voice high and strained when he realises Anne's hand is clutching his. 'Oh Anne, if you only knew what you do to me, I know it's wrong but how- ow, Anne, you're hurting me!' Anne had yanked back one of his fingers. Then she stomps on his shiny left brogue. He hops for a bit and trips over the broom. Outside the door there are titters. 'Anne please,' Charlie hisses, attempting to take her arm. 'It's impossible to see in here, if you don't keep still you may very well hurt me again. Now help me up, we haven't much time-'

For a moment Anne is speechless. After she refused his kiss, yanked his finger, and bruised his toe he still believes she wants to be in this closet with him. 'If you don't get your hands off me, Charlie Sloane, I'll hurt you again. And this time I won't be ladylike.'

'Anne, I know you're scared-'

'Scared? I'm not scared, I've been locked in smaller places than this and cornered by nastier people than you. You're just a bully-' And he is, she understands now, Charlie Sloane is a sneaky little bully who plays on her sympathy to get what he wants. 'Move! Now! Or I'll kick you down with the door!'

Charlie scrambles onto his knees and begins to beat on it. 'Let me out, let me out, she means to murder me!' He tumbles to the floor again as Rob unbolts the door.

'Toughen up Charlie, you've still got more five minutes,' he says.

'Get out of my way,' Anne snarls, 'I need to find Diana!' She dashes back to the parlour. Henry Penhallow is seated on the dining chair and Jane Andrews is resting her head on his knee. Diana is nowhere to be seen.

Anne picks up her book and clutches it to her chest just as Josie comes up behind her. She is wearing a glorious gown tonight. The velvet is so fine it has the sheen of satin, in a colour that transforms her pale blue eyes to a searing lapis. On her wrist is a bracelet made from the same exotic stone. When she places her hand on Anne's shoulder it feels cold against her skin.

'It's good to see you in something other than black, Anne. That's one of Diana's hand-me-downs, isn't it? Organdie in winter, how... original.'

'Where is she?' Anne snaps.

'Fred dashed off to the barn, so I suggested to Diana that she might like to go with him. To hold the lantern. They were making the most unlawful racket, the animals I mean. I suppose you got distracted and didn't hear. Where is Charlie by the way? I really shouldn't say this but I always thought you two would make an adorable pair.'

Anne hunts out her cloak from the pegs that run along the Wright's hallway, and hurls it over herself. 'If you would be so kind as to tell Diana I am going,' she says, briskly. 'And Jane too, please let her know I won't be requiring a ride back home.'

Josie rolls her eyes. 'Really Anne, I know you like a dramatic exit but only a deranged person would set out on foot in weather like this.'

Anne continues wrapping Dora's shawl around her neck. Josie is gripped by a queasy sensation, envisaging her very real banishment when it becomes known that she let Anne Shirley fly off into a freezing winter's night. She knows she must stop her but nothing works, not flattery, threat, trick or bribe. Short of nailing Anne to the ground she is helpless to do anything and no Pye can endure that. It's a measure of her desperation when she finally resorts to telling Anne she is going to fetch Diana. 'And don't you dare move till I get back!'

Anne watches Josie scamper off and unbolts the Wright's front door.

'I never could resist a dare,' she whispers to herself, and walks into the worst storm Avonlea will see for a hundred years.

 **...**

 _* the book title is an abridged version of a real Victorian book._

 _* Patipata is also real. Look up Wicked Little Parlor Games from 1837. Susanna Ives is a woman after my own heart!_

 _* sorry to do that to Charlie. I wanted to write about boys like that and Charlie's hand shot straight up._

To those of you missing Mr Blythe or wishing there was more of him, I meant you to. I wanted the reader to feel what Anne feels, and I think I've done that so I'm glad. Thanks for your incredible comments, you keep me going.

k.


	14. snare him in the white ravine

Things Anne takes that don't belong to her: a box of matches, one of the six lanterns that hang from hooks on the Wright's front porch, and a pair of broken snowshoes that were hidden behind their umbrella stand.

Things Anne takes that are indisputably hers: a love of aloneness, a good hot anger, and a Nova Scotian's respect for a storm.

She's been at the party for less than three hours and the snow has risen by a foot. It comes in a silent downpour so thick Anne can no longer make out the yellow birches that stand at the drive and give the farm its name. The air is still, dry and so cold the tips of her fingers are numb by the time she secures the snowshoes. She stuffs her hands into her sheepskin mittens, clutches her book to her chest, then inches her nose under her scarf in readiness for the hike ahead. The Wright's property lies between the Blythes' and the spruce grove behind the school house. She has a half a mile to get through, and she can make it -though she only gets as far the drive before her love for aloneness wavers and her anger cools. No matter, she has something more powerful than that. What fills her now is sense of purpose. When Anne Shirley sets her heart on something she will drop before she fails. And there is no way she is leaving Marilla alone on a night like this.

She bends down to light her lantern then peers down the road. A yellow light moves toward her and she winces in its brightness, tugging her hood over her eyes as the sleigh comes to a stop.

'Well now, laddie, mighty thoughtful of you standing by the drive like this. Can't see for this wretched snow. Are the young-folk assembled already?'

'I ah, believe they're still inside,' Anne says, straining to make out the man's face.

'Bless me, Miss Shirley, is that you? What are you doing out here? Snow storm's coming. Word is no one can get out of Kensington, East Grafton's half buried, Carmody's about to go under, and we're next. They reckon we got an hour at best. I got to fetch Prillie and Em, and the Pye girls too. But the Peter Sloanes are right behind, they can offer you a ride and a bed for the night.'

Ezra White flicks his reins and disappears up the drive, as jangling bells signal an oncoming sleigh. To Anne they sound like the chimes of doom. A night at the Sloanes? She would rather freeze to death! No, what she would rather do is get home. Every thought must be bent on that.

'I'm coming Marilla, I'm coming,' Anne mutters, as she searches for something to conceal her.

She leaves her lantern on the gatepost and dashes over the road, into what looks like a dense patch of forest but is merely a single line of trees. Beyond this is a steep drop and Anne falls straight down it. Her mittened hands flail helplessly, her snowshoes snap from her feet, and her great big book flies from her cloak as she tumbles to the bottom and lands with a thud. Fluffy white stars light upon her, so dreamy and downy and... cold. The snow has already covered her body. Up. Up. She must get up... but it's so soft here, and pretty, and peaceful like... like... like Snow Falling on a Town.

'A woodcut!' Anne says. 'By Utagawa Hiroshige! Born in 1797! The last great master of the ukiyo-e tradition!'

Her words are absorbed by her white world but they have done all they were meant to, which is to give her something to hold onto while she gets to her feet. She dusts off the bulk of the snow and looks about. The incline looms behind, too steep to manage in her Sunday-best boots. Before her are spindly fir trees bowed down with burdens of snow; they are endless and featureless, but Anne has the landmark she needs and that's the incline. She can follow it until she finds an easier way to climb up onto the road. All she has to do is keep the incline to her right.

'To the right! To the light! To the night! To the bright! Bright like Bright River, like Bright Star! Oh- Would _I_ were as steadfast as thou art! Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, and watching with eternal lids apart, like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite-'

She imagines she is that valiant Hermit marching toward home. Each line like a strand in the rope she throws to herself, because that's what you do when there is no one else to save you.

'...round earth's human shores, or gazing on the new soft fallen mask of snow, upon the mountains and the... No- _No!_ ' she exclaims. Keat's poem vanishes from memory, replaced with a picture of pillowy mountains as they appear in an 18th century Japanese woodcut. 'My book!'

There can be no question of her going back. She must, she does, frantically seeking her footsteps and the trail that would lead her to it. The snow flies in desperate kicks, then she gets on her knees, feeling about the powdery drifts till she feels its smooth, hard cover. Once she has it in her clutches she hugs it to herself, rocking back and forth like a mother who has found her long, lost child.

'I haven't left you, I didn't forget you,' she coos. 'Now, let's get home.'

Again she dusts off the snow, tucks her book under her cloak, yanks her scarf over her nose and glances at the incline to her right. It isn't there. She retraces her steps and scans her surroundings. Not there either. Perhaps forward- left- it can't be far- it's not as if she could miss it- she must have tumbled forty feet. But it's not- it's not- it's not possible... The incline has vanished.

Anne puts her hand to her nose fearing that has gone too. She can't feel it, nor her fingertips. And her toes, how long has it been since she could move them? Her legs give way. She drops like a stone as the cold claims her body with unrelenting force. She is turning to ice; a living Snow Queen, and just like Andersen's tale every beautiful thing that surrounds her transforms into something foul and malicious. The trees creep closer, the snowflakes catch like claws, and a large red rock with a pointed cap of snow licks his lips and leers at her.

Anne curls up small and chews on the cover of her book in an effort to stop her teeth chattering. The red leather tastes the way a tobacco pouch smells. And there is Matthew, true as you like, poking some leaf into his pipe and saying,

'You can talk as much as you like. I don't mind.'

'Matthew! Oh, I'm so glad you're with me. You might have trouble believing this but sometimes my imagination isn't enough. Of course the opposite is true too. On evenings when the wind is perfumed with narcissi and the sunlight's as gold as their old fashioned bonnets. Don't they remind you of the Elder's wives nodding at the sermon?'

'Well now I dunno.'

Anne tries to lie back. She's so tired and ready to give into dreams, but his arms go around her and pull her back up.

'Stay with me now,' he says.

'I think you'll find it was _you_ who left _me_. What's it like up there? Sometimes I think I can see you in the light of the moon or the shape of a cloud... I wandered lonely as a cloud, That floats on high o'ver vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd-'

'A host of golden daffodils,' he says.

'Yes! I _knew_ you understood me. Can you picture those wives now?'

'I can see Marilla.'

'Marilla. I never thought of her as being the yellow bonneted sort. What's she doing?'

'She's telling you to stay awake and keep warm-'

'Oh, but I am warm, Matthew, your pipe makes the most wonderful fire,'

'Don't go too near, we've got to get the blood into your fingers first.'

'I don't want to do that, I want to finish our poem-'

'How about I begin it and you tell me the rest?'

Anne gives a sloppy nod while he slips off a mitten and begins to rub her thumb. 'Ow, no stop! Matthew that smarts-'

'Good. Now save your breath for Wordsworth. Where were we... Beside the lake, beneath the trees-'

'Fluttering, dancing on the breeze-' On she goes, her voice as clear as silver bells while her hands regain their feeling. He is lacing up her boot when she comes to the line about the bliss of solitude, and stops. 'You understand the bliss of solitude, don't you, Matthew? You know how a soul needs its secret places... I know a secret place.'

'Do you now,' he says. 'You wandering the Island without me?'

'I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but I can tell you. I wish I could take you there, I wish you could see it. That's how you know you love someone, you know, when you want to share your secrets-'

'Alright Anne, fingers and toes are good. Now you're going to have to let go of that book-'

'No- I can't, I'll lose it again!' She clutches it to herself but he's too strong and plucks it from her hands.

'I need to feed the fire-'

'You can't! You philistine, what are you doing?'

'I'm out of birch bark, and the firs here are so spindly and green they won't burn. Just a few pages. The Saints, how about we burn the Saints? It's for a good cause, I doubt they'll mind so I don't know why you should. Besides you've never liked those paintings-'

'That's because they're always so sad... or being tortured to death. But I can't let you burn them, Gilbert, it's the definition of sacrilege!'

'I knew that would bring you back,' says Gilbert, grinning.

Anne frowns and wraps her arms around herself. 'What do you mean, I've always been here?'

'Then do you remember what happened? Because I have to tell you, Miss Shirley, once again you have me eaten up with curiosity.'

Anne's chin is about to come out from her scarf, but as she becomes more aware of her surroundings her expression gives way to wonder. The two of them are alone together in some sort of burrow made from snow. A small orange fire burns weakly at the entrance, scenting the air with the pine fronds it sits on, and painting the walls with an apricot glow. This must be what it's like to live inside a conch shell. Gilbert is huddled next to her. Even though she can only see his eyes she can tell he is cold and anxious. His hands are shaking as he tries to rip through The Martyrdom of St. Batholomew.

'Gil- where are we? It's breathtaking.'

'I can't tell you,' he says, miserably, tearing St Sebastian to shreds. 'I lost my way. I was heading for the orchard-'

'I thought you were in White Sands tonight.'

'As soon as I heard what was coming I had to go back. Pa's in Charlottetown for his sister and there was no way I could leave Ma alone on a night like this. I managed to hitch a ride as far as Newbridge then I walked the rest through this short cut I know. I wasn't far from home when I heard this girl's voice -actually I knew right away it was you, I just couldn't make myself believe it-'

'Because I was sitting in the middle of a snow storm-'

'No, not that, I'm used to finding you in strange places, it was what you were saying that spooked me. Don't worry,' he says, when he sees the look in her eyes, 'it wasn't anything like that. It was Euclid.'

'Euclid.'

'Line after line from Elements; Thales theorem, incommensurable magnitudes, principals of perspective -you know a lot about that.'

'I remember now. I- got lost, I was trying to get away from the Sloanes-'

'Seems logical-'

'-and I fell... I couldn't work out where I was... then I began talking to myself to keep from giving into panic, then I did panic, I felt myself turning to ice, and there was this troll, well I realise now it must have been a rock, but I was so afraid of falling asleep, I thought the moment I closed my eyes that pointy headed troll would eat me. So I forced myself to recite the most difficult things I could think of... What, what is it, Gilbert, why are you looking at me like that?'

'A rock like a troll?'

'Yes, but of course it wasn't-'

'But it was! Think hard now, what was it like?'

Anne describes its dimensions as far as she can remember them, before trying to recall exactly how far away it stood from where she sat. It's the location Gilbert is particular about. He grips her arms so tightly she flinches.

'I need you to be sure now, because Anne we are in trouble. There's no point protecting you from that fact. When I found you you were half gone with exposure so I wrapped you in my coat, built this shelter and went hunting for something to keep a fire going. But I'm chilled now, badly so, and soon you will be too. We can't last the night here, even if I burned that whole book it wouldn't buy us more than a hour. I didn't want to tell you, not when I couldn't get us out. But that rock, if it's what you say it is, if it's _where_ you say it is-'

'It is, it couldn't be more than twenty feet from me, and I never moved-'

'Right,' he says, getting onto his hands and knees, 'I'm going out there to see if I can find it, if I don't then... then we'll have to think of something else.'

The look on Gilbert's face when he reappears at the shelter's entrance tells Anne all she needs to know. She murmurs a whisper of thanks to the Saints and kicks out the last tiny embers; negotiating her book, her cloak and Gilbert's coat through the low narrow opening. Outside it's much darker than it used to be. The moon is almost obscured by falling snow. It sits on the shoulders of Gilbert's arran sweater like the tops of angel's wings. He brushes them off when she gives him his coat.

'Troll rock,' says Gilbert, motioning to a pile of snow.

'We've met,' says Anne. 'Is he going to lead us home?'

'In a way. I know he leans hard west, and west is where we'll find the orchard. We're no more than four hundred yards away-'

Four hundred yards on a summer afternoon barely equals a stroll. But the same distance in white-out conditions is closer to a dance with death. Neither of them have snowshoes. Gilbert burned his, Anne lost hers, and is still so weak she doubts she has the strength to wade through thigh deep snow.

'I'll stay here,' she says, 'you get help. I'll be fine, I have this.'

Gilbert yanks the book from her hands and begins tearing it apart, then motions for Anne to loosen the neck of her cloak. Taking advantage of her frozen state he pulls open the neck of her gown and stuffs the pages against her breasts for extra insulation.

'Get under!' he orders, lifting the back of his coat.

Anne understands his meaning immediately and tucks her head beneath, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his middle. As he walks she steps into his path, their legs moving in tandem. Of course she can't see a thing, but it turns out that's more comforting than she expected. The dark always looms in Anne's world, it needs her words, her imagination, her smarts to keep that blackness at bay. But here under Gilbert's coat she feels safe, and scrunches her eyes tighter, concentrating on the sound of his heartbeat and the movement of their legs.

He doesn't stop, not even when he stumbles, not even when they hit a patch of blackberry. He pushes through, praying he is walking in a straight line. Anne starts to think Gilbert's lungs are about to explode; when they halt suddenly she freezes in fright. He bends forward so that she is squeezed beneath the fabric of the coat and crouches down to wriggle free. Gilbert is retching into the snow with his head hard against a wall. A wall that might very well belong to the stone cottage. Anne keeps her hand upon it as she walks around, it's hard to do when there is that much snow but she refuses to let go. Around the second corner she sees the top of a door and feels like crying. It is the cottage! She returns to Gilbert and finds him lying on his side.

'Get up, get up, we're here, Gil, please you have to get up!'

'I will... I need a- I will, just let me-'

Anne crouches down next to him, pulls up his black knitted toque and yells by his ear.

'Get up, I mean it, Gilbert _Aurelius!_ Get up right now or I'll- I will never show you that secret place I found, do you hear? Then _I'll_ know something and _you_ won't, and you'll just have to be eaten up with curiosity for the rest of your life!'

Gilbert slowly opens his eyes and glares at her. 'You really are obnoxious sometimes-' He leans on her clumsily and and pulls himself up.

'I know. Charlie and I will make an adorable pair.'

'Wha-'

'Uh uh,' Anne says, 'if you want to know more you have to follow me.' Her blue lips endeavour to make a smile as she wipes the snow from Gilbert's face. Then she links her trembling arm with his and leads him toward the house.

 **...**

 _* excerpts from 'Bright Star' by Keats and 'I wandered lonely as a cloud' by Wordsworth_

 _* as mentioned in the story an Eremite is a hermit_

 _* 'You can talk as much as you like...' and 'well now I dunno' from Matthew Cuthbert is Surprised, Anne of Green Gables_

 _* everywhere else in the world a toque is a chef's hat. In Canada it's a beanie._


	15. Find him dropt upon firths of ice

The next twenty feet feel like twenty miles, Gilbert is a dead weight on Anne's shoulder and she drops him almost gladly when they reach the front door. Only the top part is clear of snow where it is protected by a portico. Not that Anne can see this, her world has become one of touch and hearing. Her senses are so acute she can judge where walls are by the way her voice bounces; can envision the mass she has to shift by sizing it up with her hands. This dark world isn't as terrifying as she used to imagine it was, it's too tactile, too tangible, for that.

Anne removes her black wool cloak and lays it before the piled up snow that blocks the door. The plan is to use it as a sort of sled to carry it away. She kicks it loose and punches it till her back is wet and her hands ache. All the time she is talking to Gilbert about Fred's New Year's Eve party, imagining certain faces when her fists and feet connect with the snow.

Gilbert is worryingly silent, but when Anne bends down to see how he is he gives her a reassuring smile.

'Nice work there, Shirley. I just hope I can get the door open.'

'Your mother keeps it locked?' Anne says, offering him her hand.

'See where you piled all that snow, that's where Ma hides the key. I don't blame her, there are things in this cottage that could kill you five times over. Imagine Mrs Pye getting her hands on that?' Anne grins, not because the joke's particularly funny but because Gilbert sounds more like himself again. 'Don't put your cloak on,' he adds, when Anne shakes it out. 'You will have worked up a sweat, extra layers will make it worse.'

'Then stop talking and hurry-'

Anne doesn't finish because Gilbert has run his shoulder into the door. It only takes one try before he finds himself on the flagstone floor of the cottage. The sound he makes next tells Anne he wouldn't have been able to make a second attempt. She pushes the door closed and throws her cloak to the floor, then feels about for the fireplace and the mantle above it in hopes of finding a lamp.

'Oh Gil-' she says, brokenly, 'why did you do that, why?' She brings the lamp to him and digs in the pocket of her cloak.

'Because I'm stupid-' He means to say stupid with cold, instead he hisses, trying to stifle another wave of pain.

'Just hold on while try and light this, I can't help you in the dark,' Anne says.

'Knife's gone. Got stuck in one of those fir trees.'

At first Anne worries that Gilbert has begun talking nonsense, then she remembers that he uses the back of his blade on a flint in order to make a spark. 'Oh! I have matches, I swiped them from the Wrights.'

'That's my girl,' says Gilbert, softly.

Anne doesn't respond. She rolls her cloak into a makeshift pillow and helps him onto his back. Positioning his arm across his chest proves the most painful but after that he seems more comfortable. There is a basket of pine cones on the hearth and Anne goes to it and begins busying herself with the fire.

'It's dislocated, isn't it?' she says. Her back is to him and she takes the chance to let her face crumple with fear.

'Don't mind that. Ma'll be here soon-'

'How?' Anne exclaims. 'It's not possible for her to know we are here.'

'I've never been able to figure that out either. But if I was you I would roll back the rug by the bookshelf and lift up the hatch.'

'Hatch- what, is there a secret passage that leads to your house?'

'We never use it except in times like this. It's low and very narrow, I need to crawl to pass through now. It's easier to come by the orchard-'

'Gilbert, you're jesting, you can't mean-' Anne's curiosity gets the better of her and she does what Gilbert says. Sure enough under the rug she finds a stone slab has been replaced with a door similar to the one that leads to the Green Gables cellar. Anne lifts it gingerly and sees a pale yellow light revealing rammed earth walls. 'Mrs Blythe?' Anne calls, tentatively.

'Oh thank you, God, thank you!' she cries. Her head pops up, then a lantern which she drops, and she clutches Anne's hand till it feels like it might break. Her dark brown hair is in two braids, her usual high colour replaced with an ashen look. But in her eyes Anne sees all the relief and love she has seen in Marilla's every time she survived some reckless adventure. 'I'm so happy to see you, dear. Your hands are like ice... Is my boy... is Gilbert with you?' Anne shifts quickly and Rowena makes a sound as though her own bones are breaking. 'Gilbert, what's happened, you're hurt!' She is by his side in the next moment, and assesses him just as quickly. 'Shall I cut your coat or try to take to off?' Gilbert nods for her to remove it but it proves so painful his sweater isn't shown the same consideration. She orders Anne to take a large pair of shears from her desk, then slices through the white wool and unbuttons his shirt to examine his shoulder. 'Sweet mercy,' she utters when she feels how cold he is, then 'What is _that?'_ as she spies a red welt across Gilbert's neck.

'I was wearing my knife on a leather strap. When I tried to cut a thicker branch it got lodged there-'

'And nearly hanged you into the bargain- Gilbert, why do you do these things?'

Anne has been holding her lantern high above them in order for Mrs Blythe to have the most light. It sinks now as she falls onto her knees, the words 'this is my fault' lodged in her throat. If she hadn't run from the party, gone back for her book, drawn Gilbert away from the path by talking so much...

'You two are as bad as each other,' says Rowena. Her eyes on her son but Anne can't help feel it was said to comfort her. 'Anne raise the lamp higher -no, find a chair and hang it from the beam, I'm going to need your help in the moment.'

Gilbert goes paler as he prepares himself for what has to happen next. His mother takes his arm.

'Anne dear, come behind and take my waist. I need you to hold me as firmly as you can so that I don't slip.'

'Wait,' says Gilbert, anxiously, 'Anne, ask me something from Elements? Thales theorum ask me about that.'

Anne smiles weakly at Mrs Blythe who looks at her as if to say, don't mind me.

'Alright, Blythe. Uh... something simple seeing you're not at your best. Describe the alternate proof of the converse using geometry?'

'Geometry. Right- so let's say the hypoteneuse is AC, the diameter AC, and O the centre of-'

'Hold fast,' Mrs Blythe whispers.

Anne grips her tightly. Rowena pulls Gilbert's arm toward her, and in one sickening jolt and it slips into place. His face goes from exquisite agony to something bordering on bliss. The sound he makes is the same. Anne prickles self-consciously and hides behind Mrs Blythe's back. When she looks up again, Gilbert's eyes are closed and his mother is smoothing his wavy brown hair.

'Anne, can you help me again? He needs arnica but in the mean time I'd like you to keep doing this while I fetch some snow. I don't want you to get any colder and I must get the water on and get you two properly warmed.'

Anne nods, shuffles over near Gilbert's head and places her hand in his hair. It's softer than she thought it would be, and damp. She leans on her elbow, then rests her head on her cloak. Her eyes feel heavy, her hand heavier, and it slips from his crown and lays on his face. The feel of his cheek rising against her fingertips is the last thing she remembers.

The first thing she hears in the morning are two people bickering. Anne grimaces, rolls over on the sofa she is lying on, then almost cries out. She is so sore, her arms especially; her throat so dry can't swallow. She is something else too, something bordering on urgent.

Anne turns back slowly and peeps through her lashes, not yet willing to show signs of wakefulness. Gilbert and his mother are by a desk. Gilbert is sitting on it, his shoulder in a makeshift sling, and dressed in different clothes. Anne looks down to see her lilac dress is also gone, replaced with a thick red nightgown that, now she notices it, feels quite itchy.

'But was it necessary to put a flask of hot water _there?_ My back and my chest I understand, but between my legs-'

'Hush, you'll wake Anne. Would I do it if it wasn't necessary?' says Mrs Blythe.

She wants to sound cross but Anne can tell she is enjoying this.

'It's alright, Mrs Blythe, I'm awake,' Anne croaks.

'Gilbert give Anne some sweet tea, she'll be parched.'

'Ah, actually, I-I-' Anne stammers.

She pulls herself up, noticing that her wrist has been bound. Mrs Blythe leaves her desk and bends over her.

'Anne dear, are you feeling well, you've gone quite red?'

'Mrs Blythe,' Anne whispers, 'I need a... chamber pot.'

Rowena's hands go to her face to disguise a wide smile. 'Oh child, that's wonderful,' she says quietly.' I did worry whether you managed to get much tea down last night. You kept falling asleep in my arms. But this means you're in good working order. The next thing I need to know is, are you the kind who can pass water behind that screen over there or would you rather take the tunnel back to the house?'

'I wouldn't want to be any trouble-'

'The tunnel it is. Can you hold on?'

'Mrs Blythe I'm nearly seventeen, not five.'

'Ma, is Anne alright?' Gilbert asks her.

'She's going up to the house, and no you are not going with her, you have another full day's rest before you get on all fours.'

'I could crouch down-'

'Gilbert, I'm not having this argument again. He has cabin fever already, Lord preserve us, Anne, we might have to put up with this for days.'

They did. It was close to seventy-two hours before Anne was able to leave the Blythes. By the end she almost wished she had left him lying in the snow. He paced up and down the hallway like Blake's Tyger, yearning to get out, sure that others were digging and rescuing while he was stuck inside like some invalid.

'You are an invalid,' his mother says. 'So for pities sake act like one, go lie down and read a book. Or fix one, that textbook of yours needs re-binding-'

'Anne's working on it.'

'Let me guess, she shooed you away because you were driving her mad. Here, take this,' she says, handing him a large plate of sandwiches, 'I'm heading back to the cottage, I expect there will be a lot of folks who need my attention by the time this is over. I have brews to make up and I don't want to be disturbed-

'I could help-'

'Tell Anne I'm sorry but we're out of butter,' she continues, ignoring him. 'I don't want to see your handsome face for the rest of the afternoon.'

It's Anne's face that Rowena sees next. She peeps her head through the hatch carefully. The little cottage is brilliant with light and smells like a warm day in Autumn. Filled with the rich and spicy scents of dried petals, fruits, seeds and grasses. Anne closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, detecting the faint note of ethanol singing through it all like the spirit of winter.

'Gilbert Blythe go away.'

'It's me, Mrs Blythe, I've come to ask if you'd like some supper. Gilbert's making cornbread.'

There isn't much that can claim Rowena Blythe's attention when she is distilling belladonna. It has to be heated to the exact second or the toxins will outweigh its curing powers. On discovering her son is not scavenging for food but making some she almost burns her cuff on the open flame of the burner.

' _Cornbread?'_

'It's good with lard, and we're out of butter,' Anne answers, shyly.

Mrs Blythe laughs. 'That's true, it is. Anne could you fetch some more snow from outside? I need to get this cooled before I can eat.'

Anne does so then lingers by Rowena's shoulder, watching her swift, sure hands measure dosages and pour the purplish liquid into tiny vials.

'I couldn't help notice you have a very neat hand, Anne -all those word game you've been playing with Gil,' she explains. 'Would you take my book down and make some notes for me while I clean up? Just look under B, you'll find it easily enough.'

The book she points to is almost twice as thick as Anne's battered Art History book and a third larger again. It looks as though it has gone through many covers, and is now wrapped in a piece of the wallpaper that decorates the Blythe's spare room. Anne parts its pages wondering where this great and ancient book it will fall open and finds herself looking at a language she has never seen before. It looks a lot like the hieroglyphs she studied for her composition on Egyptian art, and there are other similarities too, both have the same symbols for star, bowl, triangle. For the rest she is stumped, not even the translated words underneath make sense.

'Winnsudil...' Anne whispers, and her skin prickles again.

'It means 'with the hand'. That particular herb needs to be torn not cut. It reacts with metal. You're looking at one of my grandmother's recipes.'

'Is this, pardon me, Mrs Blythe but is this...'

'Mi'kmaq. Yes Anne, it is.'

Rowena sits back in her chair, an expectant look on her face. No one discovers this fact without having some strong opinion of the matter.

'How lucky you are,' Anne murmurs, running her hands over the words as though the faded ink could impart some magic. 'I don't have anything from my family, not even a lock of hair... I was told that my father had red hair like mine.' She picks up the end on one of her braids and brushes it over her lips. 'Once I cut a little and pretended it was his, but I couldn't quite make myself believe it. Do you know when you are sure you have convinced yourself of something but at the same time you know it can't be true? When I was young I used to think my mother and father were looking down at me, because everyone told me they were. I tried so hard to show my parents I was happy, but you can't be happy all the time and God wouldn't let them see me when things got... difficult, would He? He wouldn't be that cruel?'

'No Anne, you're quite right.' Rowena lowers her head over her work, pierced by the way this girl is able to peer inside her heart and see a secret truth. She turns away to blow her nose and takes a deep breath. 'Now, if you could go to B I'll tell you what to write. Just a few lines, about the quality of the belladonna. It's a good batch and I want to keep a record of that so I know how to repeat the same results in the future.'

That evening the three of them settle round the fire together for what they all seem to know will be the last time. Something in the air has changed, they all feel it, though the windows and doors are blocked by snow they can sense that it has stopped. Even Gilbert seems less restless and is reluctant to leave the warmth of the sitting room to see to the dirty dishes. His mother said once he cleans up they can make candy from a syrup of sugar and molasses, and drizzle it over trays of fresh snow. He hasn't done this since he was ten, when he declared he was too old for such things. His opinion remains the same but the look on Anne's face when his mother describes it to her causes him to reconsider. Her large grey eyes go larger still, she parts her lips and sighs. Gilbert leaves his father's chair without another word.

Mrs Blythe smiles to herself. 'You're a good influence on him-' Anne bursts out laughing, and Gilbert calls out that it isn't polite to talk about people who have left the room. 'I mean it,' Rowena insists, 'I'm only sorry I never said so earlier for I've often thought it.'

'I couldn't stop him stomping up and down the house at all hours,' Anne says. She's only half serious, but something in Anne's words alters the expression on Mrs Blythe's face.

'I have to say I've never seen him so anxious to leave. You never quarrelled did you? You both seem content enough, but I also think you're the sort who wouldn't want bad blood to show.'

'I'm not afraid to show it if I feel it, Mrs Blythe. If Gilbert knows anything about me he knows that.'

As she says this a new light shines in her eyes which makes Mrs Blythe inclined to change the subject. She recalls that instance earlier when Anne talked about heaven, and feels that same raw wound pull at her heart. In the next moment she is telling Anne about her four year old daughter who died when Gilbert was ten.

Gilbert enters the sitting room with a bucket, catching his mother's eye as he walks over to the trays and fills them with snow.

'I was just talking to Anne about Lottie.'

'So I hear,' he says.

He is trying to keep the surprise from his voice and Anne realises instantly that Lottie is someone that his mother rarely talks about. Anne has never heard of her, nor seen her grave in the cemetery. She soon learns this is because they never recovered her body from Barry's pond. The Blythe's planted a rose instead, a white one that blooms over the front porch in early summer.

'Did she look like Gilbert?' Anne asks. She is shown a small photograph of an impish girl in a simple linen dress. Her hair and eyes have been hand tinted with golden browns, and there are bright blue bows in her hair. Anne traces her finger over them and smiles. 'I often wonder what it would be like, seeing my features in someone else.'

'You will one day,' Mrs Blythe says, comfortably. 'You're bound to be blessed with babes of your own.'

Gilbert brings his thumb to his mouth to suck on the burn from the hot syrup he's just splashed on it.

'Oh, I don't think that's likely to happen,' says Anne slowly. 'Not that I wouldn't adore being a mother, I just don't see it in my stars. Besides I have my studies and teaching... And Marilla. Marilla is everything to me, Mrs Blythe. I love her as much as you love all your people; she may be just one but she is mine and I am hers. So you see,' here her brows tilt cheekily, 'unless some sentimental and highly impractical prince comes riding into Avonlea to ask for my hand and take us to his castle in the sky, I shall live at Green Gables forever and always. And I like knowing that.' As she talks she joins Gilbert on the floor where they drizzle molten syrup onto their trays with a great silver spoons. 'Look at that, Gil, we both made people!'

'Look at that,' says Mrs Blythe, peering over her son's shoulder, 'you both made seven.'

 **...**

 _* the Mi'kmaq are the indigenous people of P.E.I. (Abegweit)  
_

 _* the making of the candy comes from Chapter 4, Christmas from Little House in a Big Wood by Laura Ingalls Wilder_

 _* for those who never read the entire Anne canon (spoiler alert!) Anne and Gilbert have seven children._

Thank you all so much for reading!


	16. The torrent out of dusky doors

In the morning the occupants of the Blythe place awake to the sound of someone on their roof. All three of them leap from their respective beds and meet in the hallway. Rowena and her son look at each and other and shout at the same time, 'Pa!'

Gilbert races back into his room, colliding with Anne as he does so. His hands grip her shoulders and he breaks out in a broad grin. _'Finally_ we're getting out of here!'

Anne returns his smile but in the back of her mouth is a bitter taste. Just for a moment she feels... disappointed? Is that what it is, or is she offended that Gilbert cannot wait to get away from her? She stands in the hall in her itchy red nightgown as Gilbert runs from one room to the next looking for his suspenders, his socks, no not those socks the other ones, and the snow shovel, where has Ma put it, he is sure he left it by the front door and can she make him up a batch of biscuits and a flask of black coffee...

This must be what it's like to have a brother. Yes, that's what it is, and that's why part of her doesn't want to leave. The Blythes have come to feel like family. Rowena is like a favourite aunt and Gilbert a cousin. Except there was nothing very cousinly, nor brotherly for that matter, about the way he said goodbye.

Anne had gone to his mother's bedroom to return the clothes she borrowed and decided to use her dressing table mirror to tidy up her hair. Sometime later she saw Gilbert in the doorway. She knew right away he'd been standing there awhile, and he knew she knew because he bowled in so quickly he nearly bumped into her again.

'This is yours,' he said, then flung the shawl open and fluttered it over her shoulders. Anne had a hairbrush in one hand and her ebony combs in the other. It seemed logical he should secure the shawl for her. Evidently he thought she wore it like a cape because he knotted it high around her neck -and did a knot ever take so long? Anne was appalled to realise she was breathing as though her corset was too tight when she wasn't even wearing one. Her neck went to gooseflesh, then her breasts joined in. He noticed that too because he said mildly, 'Your dress is too light for this weather.'

'I didn't have anything else to wear to the party that wasn't black,' Anne said, her chin rising with each word.

Gilbert cocked his head to one side. 'That's where I've seen it before. It used to be pink.' Then, as if it couldn't get more awkward, he stared at the silky tassels that fell into her collar and blurted out, 'It fits you much better now not that it didn't before Martin Rossi's here to collect you.'

Luckily for Gilbert -and the hairbrush that was dangerously close to connecting with his head- he had unwittingly said the one thing that would snap Anne out of her befuddlement.

'Martin? Here?'

To Anne the name of Martin Rossi had become inextricably linked to Marilla, and not in a good way. Whenever he turned up, in name or person, Anne pulsed with anxiety, and this time was no different.

'Don't panic, he says Marilla's fine.'

'I think I always knew she would be. I just expected it would be me going to her. Not Martin-'

'Coming for you? I know what you mean. I always pictured me digging us out of here, not waiting on Pa and Uncle George to do it.'

'You expect too much of yourself,' Anne said, bending down to look in the mirror and fix her combs in her hair.

'Mmmm,' said Gilbert. He screwed up his eyes and turned away. 'I'd say the opposite was true. Listen Anne, I'll see you round.'

Anne looked up but he had gone.

Rowena had left too, in a hurry by the look of it because her book was still on the kitchen table. Anne scrawled a note of thanks while Martin hovered by her. She wished he would wait somewhere else. There wasn't likely to be another time she could dip into its pages, the B section especially. Anne attempted to do so after breakfast and had fallen foul of Mrs Blythe, who informed her that no one was allowed to touch that book without her say so. As she spoke her laughing eyes went hard and blank. Anne apologised immediately but in her heart she didn't feel it. She knew she'd glimpsed a truth behind the rumours that surrounded Gilbert's mother, and instead of feeling daunted she longed to know more.

Anne carries this longing like a splinter. For the rest of the day she forgets that it's there, not until she is tucked up in her little White Room in own narrow bed does it begin to needle her again. On the threshold of sleep she feels it prick and falls into dreams of innumerable Bs... blizzards... belladonna... bilberries... brothers... blindness... books... Blythes... bleeding...

She wakes suddenly, lights the lamp and places her hand between her legs. There's no blood. There is Marilla, however. The woman has seen the light beneath Anne's door and knocks gently before showing her sleep-deprived face.

'Can't sleep either?' she says, hopefully.

Anne is sure she could find her way back to that dream the moment she closes her eyes, but she shakes her head and shuffles over. Marilla sits next to her, stiffly at first, but in less than a minute her feet have found their way under Anne's quilts and she rests her head upon her girl's.

'Longest three days of my life,' she says, smoothing down Anne's hair where it had been tickling her nose.

'So you keep saying, but I'm sure I've put you through worse.'

'Not for three days, you haven't. If you had I wouldn't have a black hair left, and I'm half grey as it is. If Dora hadn't been there to talk sense into me-'

'I'm glad she was there for you when I couldn't be,' Anne says. She is trying to ignore another prick, the one her conscience gives her. Part of her resents Dora's being there, resents her docile, patient ways. Her talent for conjuring light as air griddle cakes, the way she banked the fire without being asked, how she brought Marilla a fresh cup of tea because Anne was too busy talking or laughing to remember why she was holding an empty cup in the first place. Anne assumed now she was home Dora would go back to Carmody with her father. Instead they stay for tea and supper before he settles in for the night on the chaise in the parlour. Dora is upstairs in the west room, or she will be, Marilla says, she's preparing the bread for morning first.

'She's been a rock I have to say. Which brings me to what I want to talk about. Martin's home was destroyed in the snowstorm. It's gone, Anne-'

'No! That's horrific, why did no one say?'

Marilla begins stroking Anne's hair. 'He didn't want to sour your homecoming. They've been staying with me since they have no place else, and because quite frankly I couldn't have done without them-'

'I'm sorry I put you through so much.'

'It was the first night that tortured me. By the second I'd heard you'd be taken in by the Sloanes. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the snows to cease -then waiting to hear if it was you or Mrs Peter who came out the worse.'

'Marilla Cuthbert, you should know no Sloane can get the best of me!' Anne pulls away as she says this and gives her a teasing frown.

'And the Blythes, do they get the best of you?'

'You'll have to ask them,' Anne says, resuming her place at Marilla's shoulder. 'You were telling me about the Rossis, what are they planning to do? Is there no family that can take them in, what if that family isn't nearby, will we have to find another man? Mrs Blythe says they're terribly hard to come by, they've been through two since Gilbert went to White Sands-'

'Anne-'

'And with all the extra work needing to done, clearing the snow and rebuilding, I imagine it will be even harder-'

'Anne-'

'Of course, it's not as if we couldn't manage without him. The winter months never require the hours of labour summer demands, and there are only our five milkers, plus Finicky and Mardy, the goats, the fowls, the pigs. We don't really have enough work to offer Mr Rossi-'

'You're calling him Mr Rossi now?'

'Well I thought if he was going to board with us I should be more careful what I call him. Dora can stay Dora though, I am older than she is-'

Anne doesn't finish, she can't. She's been enveloped in the strong, lean arms of the woman next to her; pulled so close she can feel Marilla's laughter go all the way through and come out into her pillows.

'Wicked girl,' Marilla says at last, 'you knew what I was going to say all along.'

'I know _you_ , Marilla. You could never leave them homeless at such a time.'

'And you don't mind? Be honest now. You and Martin have never seen eye to eye, and Dora can be-'

'Exasperatingly perfect? I suppose I could put up with perfect for while... It would only be for a while, wouldn't it? I mean until Mr Rossi finds his feet again?'

Marilla nods and tells Anne she has refused to take any board from him. The man lost everything when the roof collapsed on their three room house. It will be weeks before the snow clears enough for him to sift through the remains. Not that it matters to Martin, the only thing he longs for is the return of his son.

'Dora says if Davy came back we'd see a side to her father we'd never guess was there.'

Anne pictures the man currently snoring downstairs, with his shapeless hat, hollowed out cheeks, and triangular eyes that make him look like he is always about to plead for something. She cannot imagine anyone less likely to have a secret side. But it's nice to know it's possible.

'Where will he sleep, he can't stay in the parlour?'

Marilla hugs Anne to her. 'That's the other thing I wanted to talk about. I'm content for Dora to remain in the west room, but I wouldn't feel comfortable having a man upstairs-'

'No, Marilla, _no_ -' Anne wriggles out from under Marilla's arm and shakes her head, dramatically.

'For goodness sake, it wouldn't be forever. A man needs a proper bedroom. _I_ wouldn't feel comfortable otherwise -and neither would all Avonlea.'

'I don't care about all Avonlea, he _can't_ have Matthew's room. Once he does it won't be Matthew's anymore. It's still got all his memories in it, and his smell and his belongings-'

'Anne Shirley, Matthew is in God's care now, not lingering about like some old ghost. I knew I should have put a stop to you wearing all that black. I thought once you went to the party in that pretty purple gown you'd decided to move on. To see you at tea this afternoon in your old black lawn, why it's bordering on morbid-'

'Then I'm morbid!' Anne cries and hides her head under her quilt.

Marilla knows there is no point continuing when Anne is like this. She leaves the heaving lump under the blankets and sighs loudly. Dora appears at the door, her blue eyes vaguely puzzled.

'Does Anne want a cup of tea?'

Was there anything worse than the perfect guest turning up when you are at your most imperfect? Anne peeps out from under the covers and eyes her suspiciously. Her blonde hair is neatly pinned and there isn't a spot on her apron, though she's made enough dough for eight loaves, including extra for families who have no kitchens. Anne opens her mouth to respond but Marilla yanks the quilts over her head.

'Worn to a frazzle,' she whispers, tiptoeing out of the room.

Dora nods placidly as though she knows what that means, and closes Anne's door.

Hah! Anne thinks, Closing my door without even asking if I want my door closed. You don't know everything Dora Rossi... or maybe she does? Maybe she is reading up on glaucoma right now and writing letters to the oculist about new treatments and outcomes. Anne feels another sting then, one that comes of bitter, unjust thoughts. Dora lost everything, even her father by the sounds of it, and had been there for Marilla when Anne had not. While Anne had been the cause of all the trouble. Well, from now on she is resolved to be more sensible. It is a New Year after all, the perfect time to comprehensively change one's self on a whim. And Anne has it in her, she knows she does. She'd been her most exacting self when she helped out at the cottage. Mrs Blythe thought she made an excellent assistant, said she had a feel for the work that was humbling to watch. Anne had practically brewed belladonna -Dora only made tea!

Well that resolution didn't stick, her vow to become more Dora-like barely lasted half a minute. What Anne needs is her bosom friend. Though it must be after ten she wraps one of her quilts around her and goes to her gable window. The icy white muslin has long been replaced by an indienne curtain of roses and cornflowers. She pulls them open to gaze at Diana's window and sees a light shining back. No, not shining, blinking rapidly, because Diana doesn't care what she's signalling she just wants Anne's attention. Anne quickly lights a candle and wedges it into her candlestick, passing her hand in front of it to signal, _I'm here!_ Diana's response is so shocking Anne's flame comes close to setting her curtains alight. With trembling hands she manages to signal, _Certain?_ And receives the same message over and over.

 _Barn. Now. Barn. Now. Barn. Now..._

Diana's light goes out, the glow of the waning moon reflecting on her window pane. Anne looks away to the pictures on her walls, staring at them as though they might give her counsel. What would Dora do if she had returned home bruised and exhausted from a night in a storm, caused untold stress to the most important person in her life, and vowed to be responsible from now on? The Godey girls seem to laugh at her, so Anne goes to Grey Bear because despite his enormous head dress he look like he'd be more sensible. She stands before him, humbly, and listens with her heart. She gets no answer, only the question: when did any good come from pretending to be who you are not?

There is another prick as tears come to her eyes and she kisses her postcard, swings open her cupboard door and hauls out her warmest clothing. Anne may be well acquainted with her weaknesses but she has also learned that a little more sense couldn't hurt.

For the first time ever Diana is at the barn before Anne is. She barely has time to pull the door open before Diana flings herself in Anne's arms and wails upon her chest. Anne's first thought is that someone has died but that can't be possible, Marilla would have said, unless they died just minutes ago but then why would Diana want to meet her in the barn? There's nothing to do but hold her friend close until the worst is over. When Diana realises Anne is not going to let go the sobs come harder, and the tears, the snot, and the heaving shoulders of a girl whose heart is broken. At last she pulls away to dig out her handkerchief and Anne grabs the chance to speak.

'This is about Fred isn't it?'

Diana flings her lacy handkerchief into the straw and cries even more. Anne leads her to a hay bale and guides her down.

'Darling, did something happen?' Diana nods. 'Something despicable?' Anne thinks back on her time in the closet with Charlie; if Fred has tried something like that with Diana then Anne will be carving something next- and it won't be nice- and it won't be on a tree- it will be on his red, round head!

Diana's reply doesn't help. She looks at Anne again and falls in a heap. 'How can I tell you?' she whimpers.

Anne leaps up, the route to the Wrights marking itself through her memory. In such calm weather, in proper clothing, she can be there in half an hour... 'We'll make him pay,' she says, her throat smarting at the thought of Diana brought so low; her tender, trusting heart stomped on by his great big insensitive boots.

Anne is yanked down so swiftly she almost misses the hay bale. 'No! You mustn't...' Diana cries, and then more quietly, 'It wasn't like that.'

'Then tell me what it was like, Di,' Anne says, impatiently.

In between sniffs, gulps and hiccups she does. The whole sad and sordid tale. After they checked on the animals Fred had to change his trousers because he slipped in some-

'Well, _you_ know...' Diana says shyly. 'So we went back to the house and they said you'd gone home, so I followed him upstairs, I don't know why I just did, and then he took off his trousers, and then he handed them to me, and then he said, Oh Diana this is just what it would be like if you were my wife-' An unexpected smile comes to Anne's lips and she bites it back and waits for Diana to continue. 'And then I said, What else would we do if I was your wife? And then... we sat on his bed... and then we _lay_ on his bed... and then...'

'Di, _what?_ '

'Papa burst in! And Mamma and Minnie-May! Because they didn't want to leave her home alone, and Mamma didn't want to be in the storm without Papa, and Papa decided to go with every other father in Avonlea to fetch their child from the party. And they saw me, my whole entire family, lying under the covers with Fred with his longjohns on. I hadn't even taken my coat off!'

'No! What did they say?'

'Well, when they first came in Minnie-May said it smelled like cow stall in there, then Papa said where's my daughter, then Mamma tore back the bedclothes and... Oh Anne I've never been so humiliated in my life!'

'Poor darling, this never would have happened if I'd stayed with you.'

'As if I'd let you take the blame!'

'You asked me specially to be your angel-'

'I should never have needed one. Aunt Josephine said this is what happens when the only thing you teach a girl is how to please a man. She says I'm boy crazy.'

'Your aunt is here?' Under Anne's hat her brow is creasing with the uneasy sense that Josephine Barry has some part yet to play in this.

'She came back from Charlottetown with Mr Blythe,' Diana explains. 'She and John Blythe's sister play bridge together, I never you knew that, did you? She arrived at Orchard Slope today. Josephine, not Mary-Maria Blythe. She was supposed to come for Christmas, but what with the weather...'

'Diana, I don't care about bridge and the weather, there is something you're not telling me, I know there is.'

'Oh, Anne,' Diana cries, 'I thought telling you the first part was going to be the hardest, I was so worried you'd be disappointed in me once you knew I was Jezebel. But I had to see you, I _had_ to- oh what am I going to without you...'

Diana begins to cry again. Anne's patience runs short. The Barrys use this barn to store winter feed. While it smells sweet enough it's achingly cold. She feels it claw at her bones again, along with a tugging fear: what if Marilla goes back to check on her, or Dora turns up with a perfect cup of tea?

'Di please, whatever it is just tell me. I promise you we'll get through it together. Even if your mother decides to keep you home for a month - _two_ months, we can find a way, you know we can-'

As she says this Diana shakes her head. Finally she brings her finger to Anne's lips, her dark eyes wide and swimming. 'It's hopeless. I'm not being shut away, leastways not at Orchard Slope. Papa said he's not going to let what happened to Izzy Glover happen to me. I'm never allowed to see Fred again. Aunt Josephine is leaving tomorrow. And I am too. Anne, I'm going to live with her... in Charlottetown. _Forever!_ '

 **...**

Thank you so much for reading, should be another post up by Sunday!

#writingfever


	17. But follow let the torrent dance

Diana leaves on the dawn train from Bright River and none of her chums are there to see her go. Her parents do this in order to contain the gossip. The line is their daughter has gone to Charlottetown as companion for her wealthy, elderly aunt. No one believes it for a second, though it's a brave soul who says so to Ebba Barry's face. The particulars of Diana's sudden removal are vague but it has something to do with the eldest Wright boy. Why else was he seen running alongside the train? Folks said it was a good mile before he let up! Anne knows better. Diana had written that Fred's scarlet face was the last thing she saw as he raced along the platform and fell into the pile of snow at the end of it. For romance-starved Anne it was a feat worthy of Romeo and she vowed to do all she can to help Avonlea's very own star cross'd lovers.

Just before eleven on a grey-brown Saturday morning Anne sets off from Green Gables with her birthday present from Diana unopened. It arrived thanks to Fred who has become rather fond of delivering mail to the Avonlea schoolmarm. She walks with him as far as the Birch Path. In March it's still unpassable so they say their farewells and Anne continues the long way, clutching her gift to her chest and puzzling over the other item included with it. Diana usually sends a letter for Fred in Anne's correspondence, but this one is addressed to a Mr R. Rackstraw. Anne had been careful to conceal this from Fortune's Fool in his balaclava and muddy boots until she knew more. On the way to the school house she works on the mystery, glad to have something to bend her mind to. The wind is the sort to make bones of her flesh, and her birthday hasn't been all that she hoped. Dora made the cake, Martin pinned up the paper chains, and Marilla was kept to bed with a headache that has now lasted three days.

When she gets to the school house she makes up the fire. Gilbert hasn't turned up yet, not that Anne expected him to -well, perhaps just the tiniest bit. He knows today is her birthday because he asked her about it last week. Anne always believed that her seventeenth would mark the day she wore her hair up forever. But after she hangs her cloak she loosens the carefully constructed roll at her crown and works a simple braid into it instead. She doesn't have much else to do, Gilbert has the Art History book this week; they have finished their final assignment and are preparing for the exam. He'll be late again because he's always late these days, so she takes her time, saving Diana's gift for last. The letter comes first.

 _Everleigh Hall, Brighton, Charlottetown_

 _March 3rd, 1881_

 _Dearest Anne,_

 _HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_

 _I hope this reaches you by the 5th. Aunt Jo assures me it will because I am allowed to buy a first class stamp. The reason I left the writing of this to the last was because I knew you were longing to find out all about the performance I attended last night. H.M.S. Pinafore! Oh, Anne! I want so much to tell you what a SUPREME WONDER it was but for the most part I found it SPOOKILY close to life._

 _I cried when poor Ralph declared his love for Josephine, and I cried even harder when sweet Josephine declared she must be a dutiful daughter and marry some Admiral her Papa wants her to marry! And didn't he remind me of my tutor? Mamma thinks Mr Wilson is a dream. Not because he's handsome -though, Anne, he really is! He has the most adorable waxy moustache and mournful blue eyes. Of course Mama doesn't care a jot about a man's looks (I mean for all Papa is adorable he isn't handsome the way John Blythe is handsome). Her opinion about girls and books changed the moment she found out that Mr Wilson is the youngest son of Amos Wilson, the CANNERY KING of Charlottetown! But what do I care? My heart will forever and always belong to FREDERIC PERCIVAL WRIGHT! Only from now on let's call him Ralph Rackstraw just in case Mamma decides she wants to read your letters next time she visits..._

Mystery solved, Anne thinks, gazing at the envelope wrapped inside this one. She should have known it was for Fred. It is sealed with five blobs of wax.

She is opening her gift when Gilbert arrives, and pretends to be the sort who is very careful about not tearing the wrapping paper so that she doesn't have to look at him. He comes in the way he usually does, whistling loudly as if he needed to warn her of his approach. He dumps the Art History book on her desk and then warms his hands by the stove. Anne half expects him to break out into song himself; everything he does seems rehearsed.

'What have you got there, Shirley?'

Anne releases the tissue and her mouth makes an enormous O. The gift before her is beyond the wonderment of a production from the Charlottetown Dramatic Society. This is... this is...

'Glory!' says Gilbert striding up to her. 'That puts my poor offering to shame.'

Anne holds a tiny spun-glass lamp made to look like a willow tree in winter. It's drooping branches are made from strings of pea-sized crystals which catch the light that floods the classroom, and cast rainbows all over the walls.

Gilbert whistles again. 'That from Diana?'

Anne nods and looks at the envelope in his hand. 'That's _for_ Diana I take it?'

'No, Fred's still working on his letter. I'm sorry I'm late-' the again remains unsaid but it's as obvious as those rainbows- 'I saw him heading for the Birch Path with a barrow and ended up helping for a spell. He's set on clearing the dead wood and making a decent path through there. This is from me. Ah, many happy returns,' he says and almost stabs Anne in the eye with the corner of the envelope.

'Shall I open it now?'

Gilbert shrugs. 'It isn't anything- what I mean is... it's an invitation to tea, from Ma and me, for this afternoon, I baked you a cake.'

'Ever ambitious,' Anne says.

Her grave eyes are suddenly teasing and her pink lips part in a genuine smile. The effect causes Gilbert to pull a chair next to her instead of sitting at one of her student's desks the way he usually does. Anne eyes him as he empties his knapsack. He's wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a knitted burgundy vest that makes his skin seem even browner. Altogether he looks more carefully dressed than usual, except whatever he did to his hair has been undone by his toque. One curl sits on top of his head like a C.

'So where were we?' he says, and picks up what used to be a textbook and looks like a pile of photographs stuffed into a cardboard file.

He begins to sift through the pages just as Anne leans in to give him a thank you peck. Gilbert drops the book with a loud smack. They both look down at it, faces blushing hard as Cranach's Adam and Eve stare back at them.

Gilbert jumps up and slams the book shut. Anne sits there mortified. Does he blame her for the way the book opens, does he know she meant to give him a kiss? Perhaps he saw something in her face she didn't realise she was showing? She stares hard at the crystal willow while Gilbert paces between the desks. She isn't going to say anything -she can't- her tongue has frozen to the top of her mouth. So why does she feel she's about to combust?

'Anne?'

'Hmmm?'

'I said can I say something? It's been on my mind for a while now.' He's not waiting for a reply this time. If he does, if he turns around and sees those big, grey eyes staring back at him... He squats down and starts poking the stove, as if they weren't hot and bothered enough. 'What we went through- that night- in the storm,' he says, quietly, 'I mean it's natural if you feel more- _more_ than you used to... about me. We both got scared and we both got close. But it's not real -that feeling, it's just latching onto something because it feels safe. And I'm not safe-'

The crystal beads blur before Anne's eyes. She would never be able to look at this lamp without thinking of this moment. Why did he always ruin things? Anne hadn't realised she had said it out loud until he answers back.

'What am I ruining, I'm trying to be honest?' His voice cracks on the word honest but Anne is too indignant to see subtleties. She stands up and wipes her eyes, then places her hands on her hips.

'You ruin things all the time. Right here in this classroom you winked at me, _then_ you called me carrots. You said I was the smartest girl in school, _then_ you said and it was better than being pretty-'

'It _is-_ '

'-you took the school at White Sands, _then_ I find out you get paid more than I do, and you- you made me feel like part of your family, _now_ you say it's not real-'

'Anne, you weren't looking at me as if I was part of the family.'

'And you'd know, wouldn't you? Because _every_ girl on the Island is mooning after Gilbert Blythe!' As she says this she leaves the sanctuary of her desk and marches over to him. Her eyes are hot and angry and warn Gilbert that he would be very wise to retreat. He shoves his hands in his pockets because if he doesn't he is going to touch her, and then she'll look at him like that again, and...

The classroom echoes with the sound of his boot kicking a tin bucket and sending lumps of coal across the floor.

'I don't care about that!' he says, roughly. 'You want to know _why_? Because I can't afford to marry!'

Gilbert drops instantly and begins picking up the coal, his face showing every sign he is just as embarrassed as she is. Anne joins him on the floor and puts her hand on his.

'Leave it,' she says. 'You can't say something like that then pretend you didn't. What do you mean?'

He won't look at her, but he stops what he's doing and wraps his hands around his knees. 'Anne, I'm already nineteen. It's going to take years just to save enough for college and I don't mean to stop there, I want to study medicine-'

'Like your mother?' Anne says softly.

'No, not like my mother. Do you know what she earns for all the work she does for the people of Avonlea? Nothing. They come to her with their secrets and fears, then they talk about her behind her back. There's no way I could be satisfied with a life like that. I aim to be a qualified doctor. I'm looking at ten years before that happens, years more before I can offer a decent home. I don't expect... anyone to sit around waiting.'

'Do your parents know?'

'You think I can keep anything from Ma? I learned at a young age it was better to just come clean.'

Anne wraps her arms about herself just like Gilbert does. 'Your mother is like no one I've ever met.'

'She says the same about you.' He finds he can look at her now, and while his lips remain set his hazel eyes are smiling. 'Listen Anne, I'm sorry I hurt you, when I said what I said about being smart. But I meant it then and I mean it now. Kissing you really would ruin everything because sooner or later it would have to end and I don't want to lose you -I can't. I've never met your equal and I credit myself with enough smarts to know I'm not likely to. So can you stop eyeing that slate over there and tell me we're still friends?'

Anne gives him a look to show she is weighing her options, then makes a crooked grin. 'I'm don't hit people anymore I only think about it.'

'Substitute hit with kiss and you've about described me,' he says. He gets onto his knees and collects the rest of the coal while Anne packs both their bags. 'What do you say, will you come over and try my cake? I burned the top but Ma said she can disguise it with icing.'

'It's bad manners to tell your guests what you're going to serve them, Blythe.'

'You see,' he says, standing up and wiping the coal dust from his fingers, 'who else is going to keep me on the straight and narrow?'

When they arrive at the Blythe's front door red cheeked and shiny eyed, Rowena almost asks if they have come to announce they are courting. She would have too, if news of Fred Wright's injury wasn't foremost in her mind. Fred's father had gone for Dr Spencer, his mother for Dr Blair. Granny Giraud came to the stone cottage, her skirts spattered with mud and slush. Fred had slipped with his axe and is now missing the top of his thumb.

'Thank heavens he didn't hit an artery,' Rowena says, gathering her basket.

'Freddy would rather his artery than lose his hand. It is impossible, no, to be a farmer without your hand?'

Anne receives a hurried kiss from Mrs Blythe and a promise from Gilbert that he will return as soon as she can. Once they leave she goes to the kitchen and the first thing she sees is her cake. It's an indeterminate flavour topped with peaks of white icing and tiny dried rose petals. The smell of them reminds her of the stone cottage, and before she admits what she is doing she is creeping along the underground passage and lifting the up the hatch.

It appears Mrs Blythe had been interrupted because there are long bouquets of myrtle on her desk and small boxes filled with their leaves, flower heads, seeds, and roots. Anne closes her eyes and inhales. It has a camphoraceous odour, clean yet earthy. Mrs Blythe said it was written in books far older than hers that myrtle is the symbol and scent of Eden. Is this what Eve smelled before she woke, when she lay upon velvet soft grass and listened to birdsong for the very first time? Was he looking at her as she lay there, was it Adam that she smelled? Because those same books said that and when they fled Adam took wheat and dates to sustain them, and myrtle because its smell would remind him of Eden and his first days of love for Eve.

Anne studies a series of diagrams lying under a spray of dried leaves. The fruit of the myrtle looks something like blueberries, which reminds her of bilberries and she quickly flips the pages to the B section. She is just going to read about them, and any other remedy for blindness, that's all. Then she will put the book back where she found it and return to the house.

Her hand halts, almost of its own accord, when she comes to a chapter with the mysterious title, Bringing on the Courses. Her practised eyes skim the page and Anne realises she is reading about how to bring about a woman's monthly bleeding. Her eyes go wide, for a moment she is sure her heart has stopped. All this time she has been worried there was something wrong with her when it seems there are herbs she can take to remedy it immediately. Pennyroyal, tansy, Queen Anne's Lace, she made posies from these every summer.

She is looking through the desk drawers for a sheet of paper to jot the recipes down when Rowena bustles through the front door. Then Anne's heart really does stop. Rowena's eyes take on that dark, blank look once more, and this time Anne recognises it. She has seen feral cats do the same when they are protecting their territory. When Rowena seizes her book Anne almost expects to see claws.

'What are you doing here, what were you looking at?' she exclaims. She glances at the open page and her face goes white. There are many reasons to break into the cottage, but there's only one reason to read about that. Anne is not the first girl she has caught hunting through her book, but that doesn't take away the sting, or the sickening chill that follows when Rowena considers why Anne is seeking this information. Fear and anger bind like a knot in her throat, the effort it takes her to swallow it down almost brings her to her knees. She slumps on the sofa heavily and tries to clear her head. 'How far along are you?' she says mechanically.

'Please Mrs Blythe, forgive me, I didn't mean- I just wanted to look, please I'm so sorry-'

'How far?' she repeats, not able to look Anne in the face.

'I-I just looked at the B section,' Anne stammers.

'Don't insult my intelligence, I demand to know why are you in here reading about abortifacts?'

Anne knows that word, what she doesn't know is why Mrs Blythe would ask such a thing. She wasn't looking at those... was she? Anne glances at the open pages and the meaning hits her like a blow. Her ears buzz, her face feels as though it's crawling with ants.

'You don't think I'm with child, do you? You don't think _Gilbert_ is the-'

'You know Anne, I don't know what will break my heart more, when you tell me he is, or when you tell me he isn't.'

Anne thought the birthday she spent locked in the punishment cell at Hopetown Asylum couldn't be topped for sheer awfulness, but her seventeenth may very well turn out to be worse. She looks up at Mrs Blythe who stares back at her, her eyes no longer blank but brimming with tears. Anne reaches for her and takes her hand.

'Mrs Blythe, I'm not expecting, I've never even been kissed. I'm here... well I came because I want to help Marilla. But I know now I want to help myself as well. You see, the thing is- the truth is... I haven't started bleeding-'

'I don't understand?'

'You know. The monthly visitor, cologne day, Aunt Scarlet... Eve's Curse?'

'Anne dear, are you telling me you've been reading this because you have yet to experience Menarche?'

'If Menarche is the same as Eve's Curse, then yes.'

'They are not the least the same. Menarche is sacred. I never want to hear you call it a curse again.'

'I didn't know-'

Rowena cups Anne's chin briefly, then helps her up to the sofa. 'No, I can see that,' she says. She presses her head against Anne's brow and closes her eyes with relief. A long sigh is shared between them. When they pull away there are the beginnings of smiles on both their faces. 'Come back to the kitchen with me and we can talk all about it. I'll make you some cinnamon tea and the caramels John brought back from Charlottetown, and we'll have a little party, you and me.'

'Don't forget Gilbert's cake,' she says, shyly.

'You can eat it the whole thing if you like,' says Mrs Blythe. 'But if I was you I'd stick to the icing.'

...

 _* the spiritual significance of myrtle was gleaned from a few websites that were referencing what I assume is the Kabbalah, Torah, or some other sacred Jewish text._

 _* 'bringing on the courses' (also known as 'bringing on the flowers') is a mediaeval phrase meaning bringing on your period._

 _* Tansy, Pennyroyal and Queen Anne's Lace are used to make abortifacts._

 _* menarche (rhymes with anarchy, which I personally love!) is the onset of a girl's first period._

Thank you so much for reading, and your comments, especially for those saying that this story feels both rooted in canon yet fresh. I was bouncing around the room when I read that. One day I hope to be brave enough to submit something original for publishing, and comments like that make me think I will do it too. I just can't believe how many people liked this strange little story. Thank you. k.


	18. let the wild lean headed Eagles yelp

Anne and Mrs Blythe share many talks after that. After sweeping the classroom each afternoon the Avonlea schoolmarm often stops at the Blythes for some strange new tea and a talk. The book remains firmly closed but equally fascinating worlds open up, about the miracle of humanity and its abiding connection to nature. Anne had always felt this connection; a reverence she was never sure how to express. It came out as running, leaping into trees, singing with the wind, dancing round and round, till she felt her heart would burst with an iridescent joy. Anne called it _feeling a prayer._ She was the only one she knew who did this; everyone else simply went to church. Gratitude was confined to the table, the pew, kneeling at a bedside. It all felt so small to Anne, she could never understand why joy had to be contained indoors?

In Rowena she found an answer: for people have been worshipping for longer than there have been buildings. She tells Anne about the old ways including the Vernal Equinox that is coming up that March. It was once considered the beginning of the new year; the day earth turned back toward the sun. Anne is enchanted by the idea. The moment she hears about it she is determined they will celebrate it together.

The following week Rowena comes early to Green Gables. Anne is still waiting to use the washroom because Dora is doing who knows what in there. She stands on the landing desperate to retrieve the jar of tooth paste and would kick the door down if she wasn't wary of waking Marilla. Martin is doing of good job of that. Did he have to talk so exuberantly at quarter to five in the morning?

Rowena's face appears at the bottom of the stairs. She mimes a greeting then ducks into the parlour. Anne is bouncing on her toes by this point, which explains why the first thing Dora says when she appears is, 'Were you wanting another pot, Anne? Because this one is full.'

She nods at the chamber pot she is carrying which is covered by a square flannel. It flies off when Anne dashes past her and flutters down the stairwell. The squeak Dora makes as this happens causes Anne to turn and discover the pot is filled with menstrual rags. Poor Dora squeaks again and scurries into her bedroom. Her door and the door to the washroom slamming shut at the exact same moment.

'I'm sorry I kept you waiting, terribly, terribly sorry,' Anne babbles to Mrs Blythe when they climb into the buggy five minutes later.

'Anne dear, it's fine. You must calm yourself. There's no point us doing this if you're going to be vexed. The Equinox is about new beginnings. It's vital that you are pure of thought and clear of intention. Remember what Reverend Allen always says? We must begin as we mean to go on, and go on as we began.'

Anne repeats the phrase as they pass the ancient pine and head up Newbridge Road; chanting it faster and faster until Rowena takes one hand off the reins and fastens it over Anne's mouth.

'Morning Aunt Ro,' Jean-Louise calls out. She waves the stick she uses to prod the cows across the road to the dairy. 'Where you off to so early, Miss Shirley, you won't forget us now, will you? Don't wanna be late for school again!'

Rowena bites her lip and jogs the mare along. Once they pass the Fletcher's farm she bursts into laughter. 'Oh, you do remind me of Gilbert.'

Anne huffs. 'When _he's_ late the White Sands matrons fall over themselves to give him a ride to school. _Save you walking that_ _great big mile_ ,' she says, doing an impression of Gilbert doing an impression of Mrs Macdonald -or was it Mrs Mactavish?

Rowena laughs again. 'And what happens to you?'

'I get a letter from the School Board.'

'I doubt it can be all that bad. Folks round here say their children have never been happier. Jean-Louise can't bear to miss one day.'

'If attendance was all I was answerable for then I'm certain I would top the honour role,' Anne says, grumpily. 'It's the way that I teach that infuriates them; I don't stick to the curriculum, I invited Diana to work with me without their say so. I thought being a teacher meant being queen of my domain. Instead I'm forever trying to please the Inspector or the Board or the parents- oh the parents!'

Clearly this conversation is not putting Anne in a peaceful mood. Rowena wisely changes the subject. 'How's it working out with the Rossis? Must be nice having another girl your age, especially now Diana's gone.'

It isn't Dora but Diana that brings the light back to Anne's face. She tells Mrs Blythe all about the latest concert Diana attended, the thrilling novel Miss Barry bought her, how she is wearing the front of her hair parted in the centre and the back in a hairnet made of real silver thread; about her English tutor, Mr Wilson, and her mathematics tutor, Mr Olsen-

'Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen?' says Rowena.

'Isn't it adorable? She tells me they are, too. Mr Olsen is the youngest son of a textile merchant in Charlottetown. I never knew so many youngest sons would want to make tutors of themselves.'

'Youngest sons have no choice, Anne, they have to marry money. Tutoring young ladies is one way of going about it-'

'Oh Diana doesn't want to marry _them._ She's madly in love with- er... Ralph Rackstraw.'

'I don't believe I'm familiar with him,' says Rowena dryly.

'No, I- no,' Anne stammers. 'He's teaching her advanced geometry. Mr Olsen I mean, not Mr Rackstraw. Miss Barry says Diana needs to develop a fascination for something other than... ah-'

'Ralph Rackstraw?'

'Yes,' Anne says, quickly, and then adds with relief, 'Oh, Mrs Blythe, this is it! We'll have to stop here and walk up rest of the way.'

They tether the mare to a likely pine and stride up the hill. When they reach the top Rowena leans against a mossy part of the wall and grins, breathlessly.

'I do believe I know this place!'

'You do?' Anne says, disappointed.

'I played here when I was a girl. Now who were the people that lived here... Rock- something? There was a girl, Nora, she could spin the most wonderful stories, and another, Gladys, who could play the harp. Oh and twin boys, who always wore identical sailor suits. The family left years ago, they took the house apart and moved it on a wagon and broke my eight year old heart. I fancied myself in love with the eldest twin- Irving! That was his name, and his brother was Paul. He used to call this place The Sunrise Garden because he said that if we ever sailed into one we would discover it was made of flowers just like this garden.'

'The Sunrise Garden,' Anne murmurs, her hands clasped under her chin.

Rowena knows that look, she also knows Anne does not want to be late. 'Now,' she says, in firm fashion, 'have you got all your things?' Anne nods and reaches into the back of the buggy to retrieve a large basket while Rowena grabs two other items. 'This is from Gilbert, and this... is from me.'

Anne grins at the news that Gilbert was able to find what she needed, but she is almost overcome by the large parcel in Rowena's hands.

'Not yet,' says Rowena as Anne tries to take it from her, 'all in good time. Now quick, we have a fire to make and the sun is minutes from making its grand appearance.'

They go to the northern corner of the garden. The sky is still dim and a fog collects inside the walls like the ghost of December's snows. Anne takes the kindling from her basket and lights a fire, feeding it gradually until its orange tongues are three feet high.

'Take hold of my hand,' says Mrs Blythe. 'Now it's six steps this way, then six steps the other. Keep doing that until you can see the sun break free of the horizon, then yell out your salutations as loud as you can.'

It is wondrous fun to shout to the sky; doing so with a grown up makes it feel even more significant. The first sun of the Spring equinox rises proudly and a fine veil of gold falls over the garden. The fog shrouds everything in a mist so thick that Anne and Rowena seem to rise from it like spirits. At last when they are hoarse and pink cheeked they fall upon the rug Anne brought and sigh happily.

'Ah, Anne,' Rowena says, 'it's been an age since I've celebrated this day with anyone else. Thank you for bringing me here. Now do you have your plants?'

Anne unwraps the two specimens carefully. Beneath yesterday's column from Dr Lavendar is a scotch rose that Matthew's mother brought from the Old Country. The other is an insignificant looking shrub.

'Bilberry!' Anne says. 'Where did he find it?'

Rowena knows there's only family in Avonlea with ties to Scandinavia. The fewer people who know her son trespassed on Rachel Lynde's property the better. When she shrugs she does it just the way Gilbert would.

Anne digs two holes into the earth. It's difficult work when the ground is half frozen, her armpits and back are damp with perspiration and she wishes she'd brought a change of clothes.

'Now off with all that black you're wearing,' says Rowena. Anne jerks away and shakes her head. 'Anne, you can't make clear intentions in those gloomy old things. And I know Marilla feels the same because she told me so.' She unwraps the brown paper parcel and hands it to the girl. Inside is a red dress.

'I can't wear red!' Anne exclaims.

'Nonsense. Red is the colour of earth, of birth, and fire. Red is the colour of beginnings. And today is the perfect day to make that new beginning. Now put it on and share your intentions.'

Her commanding tone makes it impossible for Anne to do anything else. She unbuttons her coat and shimmies out of a black pinafore and blouse, then slips the red dress over her head. It's a fine merino in a rich maroon with narrow sleeves and a square collar. The sort of smart, stylish thing a girl of seventeen should be wearing. Anne feels tall and regal in it, and gives Mrs Blythe a look of sincere appreciation.

'You don't have to say anything, just allow a mother her chance to dress a girl for a change. And promise me you'll wear lively colours from now on. No more black.'

'Are you saying that's why I haven't-'

'I'm saying stop dressing like a crone and we shall see what we shall see.'

Anne crouches down and places the rose and the bilberry into the earth, her voice ringing clear in the cool morning air. 'I wish to make Matthew proud. And I vow to save Marilla.'

She looks up at Mrs Blythe to see if she has completed the ritual correctly. Rowena merely nods, afraid she might cry because this lovely girl fulfilled her vow and promise long ago and she doesn't even know it.

Afterward they meander to the wall and share a small breakfast before heading back to the school house. The fog is even thicker and Rowena almost loses control of the mare when she drives into a flock of sheep. Anne, of course, is late, but the vivid smile she gives Mrs Blythe gives no hint of her trepidation. This will be another strike on her record.

The children are gone, blackboard wiped, and floor mopped when Mrs Pye comes that afternoon. Her husband is secretary of the School Board, which in Mina Pye's eyes make her secretary, too.

'Sign this,' she says, holding out another tardy form.

'Mrs Pye, half the class were late today because of the fog-'

'Sign it, Miss Shirley, or I'll have to give you an insubordination form to sign as well.'

Anne sighs, finds a pencil and scribbles down her name.

'My nephew was here last Saturday,' says Mina, her beautifully arched brows disappearing beneath the plume on her hat.

'Mrs Pye, I did tell Anthony that work on the school garden won't begin until the grounds are fully thawed.'

'He didn't come for that. He was- well never mind what he was doing. The point is he says he looked through the window and saw you here with what appeared to be a young man. What do you say to _that?_ '

'I say if Anthony wants those postcards back then tell him I am happy to deliver them to his parents. Now if there's nothing else?'

Anne strides down the aisle to fetch her hat and coat. Mrs Pye finds herself envying the way the girl's dress compliments her willowy figure. Her own daughters own nothing so plain, yet something about it made Anne Shirley look far too worldly for a humble schoolteacher.

'You shouldn't wear such things to school, it isn't proper. Where did you by come it?' she can't help adding.

Anne pauses in the doorway with eyes so wide and serious Mrs Pye suspects she's being mocked. The girl's impudent answer confirms it.

'You can't buy this, Mrs Pye,' she replies. 'I got it from a sunrise.'

The day before school is set to end for the year Anne is wearing her red dress and stands up to write a geometry problem on the black board. The year six children groan, they've already sat their exams and their old teacher let them play games _every_ day on the last week of school.

'I've promised you a whole day of games tomorrow. Besides this problem is like a game. It's a puzzle of sorts, Miss Barry sent it to me-'

'Miss Shirley, have you sat in something?'

'Miss Shirley there's a wet patch on your pretty plummy dress-'

'Anfony Pye did you put anuvver tadpole on Miss Shirley's chair?'

'Eeuw, guts, Teacher has guts on her leg!'

At this last comment Anne swivels round and makes her 'last chance' face or what the children have come to call the Shirley Shriveller. They sit back in their seats and press their lips together. Except Nettie Hollinshaw's littlest brother. He is too young to come to school but he often does because, as Mrs Hollinshaw explained, 'it gets him out from under her feet'.

'It's troo Misssurley, you rilly sat in sumsing,' Danny Hollinshaw says, earnestly.

Anne cannot resist a glance at the back of her skirt. 'C-class, you may take an early recess. Bell at one,' she says slowly. She sits down gingerly and watches her pupils grab their lunch pails and tumble out to a warm and sticky May mid-morning. What is she going to do? She has nothing, not a thing she can use. The outhouse has old newspapers but surely that won't work. She needs Marilla or Dora or Mrs Blythe or-or any woman. Where is Mrs Pye and her tardy form now? The great moment is finally here and she's stuck at school with twenty-eight children.

Anne gets up carefully, aware of a definite ooze between her legs and walks with her thighs pressed together toward the front door. She takes the bell from its hook on the porch and rings it loudly. Her children slowly wander in, their faces in scowls which melt away when she announces she is unwell and that everyone will have to go home. After reassuring half of them she isn't dying, she locks the door and scurries back to Green Gables with her shawl around her thighs.

After supper she goes to the Blythes. The look on Rowena's face when Anne tells her what happened is like another sunrise.

'We must celebrate,' she says to Anne. 'But for now there's something I'd like you to have.'

Anne follows her into her bedroom. Mrs Blythe opens her jewelry box and brings out a ring.

'No, Mrs Blythe- you've already given me so much.'

'Humour me,' she says, placing it in Anne's hand. 'You are one of the blessed now, Anne. A daughter of the moon. Every month you will wax and wane just like she does. You will bleed but you will live, and that is a powerful thing. My grandmother's people knew this and built moontime tents for their women. Not to shun them, no- to honour their power. Every queen must have her castle. This is carnelian, you can wear it during your moontime-'

'Is it magic?' Anne asks her, slipping it onto her index finger.

'No, dear. It's just to remind you that red is beautiful.'

The next afternoon Anne wanders home tired but infinitely satisfied to have managed a whole year as the Avonlea schoolmarm. She has two pupils going onto to Summerside and another six about to take the Entrance. Even Danny knows how to write his own name. She looks forward to comparing her results with Gilbert, who expects seven from his class to go onto the High and another seven to Queens. Mostly she just looks forward to Gilbert coming home for Summer instead of weekends. She is rubbing her ring over her lips and imagining all the things she might do with three months of freedom when a short, round figure comes strutting up behind her. Mr James A. Harrison, the Deputy School Inspector.

'Miss Shirley, I say, Miss Shirley,' he says prodding her back. 'Our meeting, have you forgotten?'

Anne paints a smile on before informing the gentleman that she never received the form. Mr Harrison can't believe she is making a joke. All teachers should expect a visit on either the second to last or last day of term.

'I've heard it said you consider yourself above the rules. I now share that opinion. I arrived at your school yesterday a full half hour before class should have been dismissed and what did I find-'

'An empty classroom?' says Anne.

'What? Yes,' says Mr Harrison, annoyed that his punchline has been stolen.

'All I can do is apologise, Mr Harrison, but it was simply a case of bad timing. You arrived on the one day I happened to be indisposed.'

'Indisposed, how?' he demands.

'In the indisposed way, sir,' Anne answers, coolly. 'But trust that the reason was a good one-'

'Trust?' says Mr Harrison, stroking his tie. It's wide and shiny and decorated with a lurid yellow parrot. 'It pains me to say this of such an outstanding scholar, but I find there is little to trust in you. You ignore the curriculum, never use your Key Texts, insist on this outdoor school, and that girl you had with you, utterly unqualified-'

'Mr Harrison I have already received my written warnings, and the Elders of our Church spoke very highly of Miss Barry's contributions to our school.'

'Touching but irrelevant, like most things you do, Miss Shirley. And what about this other person I've been told about, this _young man_ seen coming and going from the classroom out of school hours.'

'Out of school hours is my business.'

James A. hurriedly opens his briefcase and extracts three pages that appear to have come from a book. 'And this, is this _your_ business? Because this has no _business_ being on school grounds!' He waves them under Anne's nose. 'Disgusting, unnatural, immoral-'

Anne plucks them from his fist. They must have slipped out of her old Art History book weeks ago. She shuffles through Venus, David, Aphrodite. Every one in various states of undress.

'I can explain, it was for a class I was taking-'

'With this _young man_ no doubt. Well we should like to speak to him to verify this claim of yours. And if we accept his version then he shall face the consequence not you.'

'What consequences?' says Anne, anxiously.

'I'm sure his employer would like to know his character. I certainly would. A bounder of the highest order. But if what you say is true then I can hardly blame the fairer sex for such lack of judgement. It wouldn't be fair.' He chuckles and gives Anne a wink. 'Did you see what I did there, _fairer_ and _fair?'_

'Fair?' Anne says, straining to sound respectful. 'How fair is it that I am paid a quarter less than my male colleagues? How fair is it that you would take the word of this man over mine? How fair is it that I am charged with the care and education of children yet you question my judgment?'

James A. exhales extravagantly and strokes his tie again. 'This is why it's pointless to reason with a woman. I'll put it to you again so you understand my meaning. Either you tell me the name of this cad or you will find that your contract is not renewed-'

'Are you... _firing_ me?'

'I might-' he says. It occurs to him now that he may not be allowed to. He begins to blink rapidly and mutters something about it not being convenient to make that decision until September.

Anne has stopped listening. She pulls herself up to her full height and glowers with red hot fury. 'I would hate to inconvenience you, Sir. Please, allow me to fire myself! Miss Shirley? You are fired!'

She marches toward the Birch Path then pauses, fearing and hoping Mr Harrison will come after her. He is standing on the roadside with his mouth wide open, unable to conceive that this- this- _red headed snippet,_ could speak to him this way!

His incomprehension is so obvious Anne wants to laugh. Instead puts her hand to her mouth and calls out, 'I say, Mr Harrison, did you see what I did there?' Then she tips her hat irreverently and skips all the way to Green Gables.

 **...**

Some great big tip o' the hats to the characters in Anne of Avonlea in this chapter. And props to FKAJ for spotting the reference to Charlotta that Fourth (Lottie) in chapter 14.

Lylt, k.

 **...**


	19. alone, and leave

They say tears may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning. For Anne Shirley it happens the other way round. After her clash with the Inspector she wears a secret smile all afternoon. When supper is ended she falls into giggles and refuses to say why. All night she tosses and turns burning with fiery resolve, but by morning she is an empty grate with nothing to show but ashes. All she can think is, what am I going to do now?

Anne tiptoes downstairs and sits in the kitchen. There is evidence of Martin having eaten some cold boiled eggs, and there are Dora's tins of dough proving under the teacloths, and there is a yawning pit inside her that cannot be filled. She pulls up her knees, tucks her nightgown over them, and stares out the east facing window to a rising sun. What she had done would not make Matthew proud, could never help Marilla. Gilbert gave up that school so that she might have it, Diana longed to be a teacher and was denied the chance. Anne had thrown it all away. She remembers her pupils then; how they would miss her; how they would meet her on the road, in the post office, at the graveyard, and say, _Why_ Miss Shirley, why don't you want to be our teacher anymore?

'Here,' says Dora, sliding a mug of tea in front of her. Having been barely aware Dora was there Anne takes it gratefully and wraps her hands around the mug. There are benefits to living with perfect and this is one of them. 'It's Davy's birthday today,' she says, adding more wood to the stove.

Anne blows on her tea and frowns. She is sure that Dora's birthday is tomorrow and says so.

'It is. Davy was born just before midnight and I was born just after.'

'So that's why Martin always says you two were as different as night and day-'

' _Are_ different. Not were. Davy lives, I know it, and when he returns my father will smile again. Not here,' she says pointing to her lips. 'But here.'

Anne watched Dora's finger press against the blue print apron that covers her heart. She had made one up for Anne too, and showed her how to fix a napkin into a belt, and knotted a sock filled with hot grains of wheat to use when her first cramps came on. Dora is one for deeds not words. When she passes the crock of honey Anne grabs her hand and strokes it with her thumb.

'You're very good to me, Dora,' she says, gently.

Dora makes her puzzled face, she often does when she talks with Anne. Anne with her too big feelings and her too big eyes, and that mouth of hers always saying the strangest things.

'We are supposed to be good,' she says, in the same tone she would use to say a comes before b.

'But don't you ever... _not_ want to be good?'

Dora shrinks back. She does her best to avoid this type of conversation if she can.

'Don't you ever lose patience?' Anne insists, 'don't you ever want to say enough, no more, not today... Don't you ever get mad?'

Dora goes over to the stove to check the temperature. She can hold her hand by the stovepipe and know to the degree when it's ready.

'Not even at Davy?' Anne continues. 'He ran away and broke your father's heart. Don't you ever wonder where he is, why he doesn't come back- did you ever look for him?'

'Yes we looked for him. He's a very resourceful boy but he was also thirteen and had a temper like...' here Dora pinkens and smooths down her collar. 'What I mean is he and Father would quarrel at least once a day. Davy always said he would go to sea one day. I knew he would leave sooner or later, so I could hardly be cross when he did. It was father I was disappointed in, for spending so much time looking when he should have been working- when he should have been home.'

'Who looked after you?' Anne says.

'I looked after me. Like everyone has to.'

Anne stands and wraps her arms around the girl. Her small blonde head fits into the curve of Anne's neck. She smells of lemon scented soap and tooth paste. 'We might have to, Dora Rossi. But what we _must_ do is take care of each other.'

Dora shifts away and opens the stove door. 'I know you don't want us here,' she says into it.

'You're right, I didn't,' Anne says simply. 'I wanted to save Marilla all by myself, I wanted to be enough for her.'

The bread is placed inside and the oven door is swiftly closed. When Dora stands up she smiles. For the first time Anne notices that she has a gap between her two front teeth.

'I want the opposite,' says Dora, 'for Father not to need me so much. One day I hope he'll take another wife. Even when Mother was alive I remember him always alone. There was no spite between my folks, but there was no fondness either.'

'Have you told him?' Anne asks, returning to the kitchen table.

'Only recently. Not that it matters, he always does the same thing: hold my hand and sigh and say his heart's already taken.'

This comes to Anne like a revelation, she hadn't credited either Rossi with such depth of feeling and it stings when she realises she has let her imagination wither in darkness like her pretty clothes. Before Matthew's death she would have made up romantic tales for all of them, Davy especially, and spun stories by the firelight each evening while Matthew chuckled and puffed on his pipe. That great hole she feels, the one laid bare by losing her job, it's her writing she misses. Her need for it vanished with Matthew, and Anne isn't sure if it's ever coming back.

'Do you think that's true, that once we have truly loved one person our hearts are no use to anyone else?'

Anne receives another puzzled look.

'You might be clever and speak the truth when you know it. But my days, Anne Shirley, you do say the strangest things.'

That afternoon Anne and Marilla walk to the graveyard together. Abner Sloane is there with Matthew's new headstone. There was little discussion about what should be written on it; Matthew was never one for grand speeches, or any speech for that matter. Though hardly original it had been agreed that Rest in Peace was all that was needed beneath the date of his death.

'Doesn't seem real that a year has passed since he left us,' says Marilla, patting the sun-warmed stone.

'I suppose because he never really did. You've felt him, I know you have -despite your set against ghosts.'

Marilla stands and wipes her hands on her apron. 'You cannot take a set against that you don't believe in.' She says this firmly but her thin lipped mouth is no match for the smile that tugs at it. Her teeth flash white against the papery brownness of her face. 'Alright. I admit there are times I am sure I smell that infernal pipe.'

Anne crouches down and kisses Matthew's name then places a slip of white scotch rose on top of the headstone. She wonders how the other bloom grows in the Sunrise Garden. She hasn't been there since March and every time she thinks of going she always turns back. The thought of being there alone doesn't comfort her the way aloneness usually does.

'I'll leave you be and pluck some weeds,' Marilla says, rubbing her eyes. Her fingers go white as they press against her eye-sockets, a sure sign a headache is coming on.

'Please stay,' Anne says, reaching for her skirt. 'I don't mind if you listen. That is, I'd like you to.' She begins by telling Matthew about her last day at school, the little presents her pupils made for her, how she expected Ruth MacPherson to make an excellent showing in the Queen's exam next week. And finally her meeting with Mr Harrison. 'I had every reason to believe he might fire me unless I revealed the young man's name. I'm afraid I took matters into my own hands, Matthew, because I... fired myself-'

'What was that?' Marilla utters.

Anne looks up at the woman beside her, her eyes clouded with green-stained fog, her mouth fallen open with shock. 'I am no longer a teacher at Avonlea, at least I don't think I am.'

'That part was clear enough. What I am struggling to comprehend is that this Mr Harrison lead you to believe your position would be safe so long as you slandered another?'

'Yes, but Marilla I would never, _could_ never-'

Marilla yanks Anne up. 'I should hope not! Despicable man! I've never heard the like of it. Avonlea school can burn to the ground before I let a girl of mine do such a thing. A person's character is all they have. To think there would come a day when John Blythe's son should be so disgraced. No, Anne you did the right thing-'

'I never said it was Gilbert-'

'Who else would it be?' says Marilla eyeing the carnelian ring on Anne's finger. John Blythe had given her something identical once; she had later thrown it at his head. 'I saw that _book_ of yours, young lady. Why you couldn't study something sensible like Domestic Science instead of all those statues and whatnot.'

Anne thinks of Dora and exhales loudly. 'I'm beginning to wish that I had. I'm afraid the Rossis are more help to you than I could ever be. You'll miss them I think when they move next month.'

Marilla rubs her eyes again. 'It's time they moved on. I won't have anyone making a nursemaid of themselves on my account.' She turns briskly and marches over to the new gate, Anne barely has time to pick up her hat. 'Well,' Marilla barks, 'are you going to keep gabbing or are you going to help me bake Dora's cake? The girl will bake it herself if I give her half a chance, I'm starting to feel like my kitchen isn't my own anymore... I'm not blind yet!'

Marilla sets off at a clip. By the time they reach the ancient pine Anne gives up trying to match her speed and watches her stride up the lane. She dawdles in scented shade, certain her actions are the cause of Marilla's mood. Brave words about burning down schools are all very well, but brave words don't pay as much as a teacher's salary. She is so busy trying to think of a way to ask for her job back without involving Gilbert she doesn't notice Marilla's absence in the kitchen. Not until she is unable to find the vanilla does Anne seek her out.

Marilla's bedroom is dark, and heavy with the scent of camomile. Anne spots Dora first, standing before a chest of drawers and squeezing a compress over a basin. Marilla is heard before she is seen. Anne peers behind the door to find her hunched on her bed, pressing her head against Martin's chest and whimpering like a child.

'It hurts, oh it hurts-'

Martin smooths his hand over Marilla's loosened hair and strokes it over and over. 'Hush now,' he mutters gently. 'Try an' rest, try an' rest...' His head jerks up when he spots the light from the open door fall upon a bright red braid. 'Pardon me, Anne,' he says, 'did you want to take over now?'

Anne attempts a reassuring smile and shakes her head. 'No, Martin, please, you continue. I couldn't do more than you are doing right now.'

 **...**

Thanks again for reading. I forgot to say I have never had so many reviews and follows before. I'm so happy that you like this story. I want to do my very best for you. Love, k.


	20. and find him in the Valley

Anne sits on the front steps of the Blythe place, a dreamy smile on her lips. Today there is a soft warm wind and it carries the scent of all things green; cut grass, weed on the water, apple-mint, spearmint, peppermint, and the rose that climbs over the porch. She is admiring the way the lime-tinted buds slip from their sepals when Fred comes dashing through the gate. He stops short of the steps and bends over striving to catch his breath, his face the same colour as Anne and Rowena's Rooibos tea.

'Mr Rackstraw, always a pleasure,' says Rowena, 'I'll fetch you some lemonade, unless you'd like tea?'

'No-no-' Fred wheezes. His shoulders heave and he pulls off his tweed cap and fans himself frantically. 'I-I... I've just come from Green Gables-'

Anne jumps up as though her legs contain springs; Rowena only just rescues her sprig pattern tea cup. 'Is it Marilla? What is it Fred, please?'

'No Anne, not that- I've just come from the post office-'

'Now Fred, which is it,' says Rowena calmly, 'Green Gables or the post office?'

She takes Anne's hand and holds it fast. Fred stands up and looks confused.

'Both Mrs Blythe. I happened by the post office first,' he says, wiping the sweat running down his cheek, 'then I went to see Anne. Ran the whole way-'

'But _why_ , Fred, for goodness' sake, tell me!'

He hands Anne the slip of yellow paper that was balled up in his pocket. 'It's a telegram,' he announces, as though it was plague. No one in Avonlea receives a telegram unless there is bad news. The source of Fred's distress is made clear when he adds, 'From Charlottetown.'

Anne takes it with a shaky hand and finds it has already been opened.

'Wasn't me,' Fred says, 'It's addressed to Miss Cuthbert.'

After attempting to smooth it out over her thigh she reads, _Miss M. Cuthbert. Cordial greetings. Require Anne for two weeks. Will wire fare. Immediate response expected. Regards etc. Miss J. Barry._ Anne resumes her place on the step and frowns. What has happened to Diana- why not write a letter- why the need to go to Charlottetown -and for two whole weeks?

'Seems straight forward enough,' Rowena says.

She heads inside to fetch Fred something to drink. The boy is pacing up and down the yard, rubbing the stump of his thumb over his chin.

'Straight forward? Diana never wrote me about this!'

'Nor me,' says Anne, quietly. 'What did Marilla say about me going? I don't imagine she can easily spare me, not at this time of year.'

'Oh she's sparing you, alright. Said you were to go to the post office directly and send a telegram straight back. Said you can leave tomorrow-'

'Tomorrow?'

'Would that someone wired _my_ fare-' he says, darkly.

Mrs Blythe reappears with a glass of lemonade and a large brown envelope. 'Now, Frederic, you know Yellow Birches couldn't get along without you. Used to be Gil couldn't drag you away for so much as a dip in the stream this time of year. How are you getting on with the June harvest; your thumb, is it giving you trouble?'

She reaches for his hand and examines the bright pink scar while Fred gulps down his drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to suppress a burp.

'Would be easier if Gil was back. I expected him last week. What's the hold up? Greens won't pick 'emselves, you know.'

Rowena takes the glass back and looks sidelong at Anne. 'Why don't you explain on the way, dear? I'm sure Fred will be wanting to accompany you. He's very fond of the post office.' She grabs Anne's hand next and places the envelope into it. 'I'd appreciate it if you could take this with you. It's to go to the Charlottetown Echo. They're situated across the road from the Station. Just hand it in at reception, no need to tell them who it's from.'

Rowena embraces Anne briefly and tells her to take care. Anne smiles and grabs the shawl she has draped over the porch rail, then flies down to the gate. When she turns to wave a last goodbye Mrs Blythe is grinning broadly. Her puffed sleeves balloon with the breeze as she cups her hands around her mouth and calls out one final instruction. 'Anne Shirley, have _fun!_ '

Fun seems the least likely result of such a summons, yet fun is exactly what it turns out to be when Anne boards the train to Charlottetown the next day. Miss Barry's secretary booked her employer's usual first class carriage, out of habit rather than extravagance, and Sunday morning sees Anne curled up on the velveteen banquette in her second best dress, her pale face pressed against the window as she watches the road go by like a red ribbon held out in the wind.

She goes to her small suitcase which sits on the rack above her and brings out the book Rachel Lynde had given her for her birthday. It's covered in green buckram and consists of one hundred blank pages. Mrs Lynde was extremely keen to press that point.

' _One hundred_ ,' she said. 'By the end of the year I'm expecting to see one hundred recipes in there. I've started you off with two of my own so's you know how to write them out properly. Marilla insists on alphabetical order. Well, what good is that, I tell you? No use reading a lettuce recipe in winter! It should be seasonal. Summer, autumn, winter, spring. I've started you out with summer, seeing as I don't expect you'll find much time to do any cooking with all that teaching and studying you're insisting on doing. Look there,' she said, proudly, 'Boiled Asparagus in Muslin Sauce and Thomas' favourite, Stewed Cucumbers.'

Anne turns the page on those and licks her pencil. The creamy white paper seems ripe for more than recipes. She catches her reflection as the train enters the Kensington tunnel and smiles at her writerly self. But the words won't come; not until the Ticket Inspector taps timidly and pops his head around the door. He was never this polite on the ride to Queens. All at once Anne expects the man to recognise her from the rowdy singalongs they used to have when she came home from teachers college on weekends. Not that Anne ever sang. She was the one huffing behind her book while Gilbert and Ruby waltzed along the corridor belting out, Come Into The Garden, Maud, or The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington.

Anne studies the Inspector with obvious intent. His cuffs are pristine and his shoes have mismatched laces; he has a brown spot on his blue iris and razorburn on his neck. He also fidgets and blinks under Anne's gaze and leaves the compartment in haste. A sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps? Or... now this could be something; does she remind the Inspector of his 'own true love'? Perhaps the lady is red headed too, red hair tends to catch peoples' attention. Gilbert says he thinks he sees her strolling along the shores of White Sands all the time.

Anne licks her pencil again and begins what she tentatively calls The Inspector's Romance -a working title, obviously- but is stumped by the third page. She needs some other characters to flesh out the story. Miss Stacey said stories with one character weren't stories at all, they were monologues. And while they are fun to write they are tedious to read, so Anne tucks her book into her satchel and goes to the dining car. A five course lunch is included with the ticket. She had thought she would take it privately the way ladies of consequence do, but she needs inspiration so she takes a small table near the tea urn and jots down... a sad looking boy with a box on his knee... the rosy glow of cranberry glass lamps... a woman with an eye-patch that she hides with a drooping hairpiece... a grandmother feeding her grandson his soup... the smell of stale coffee and overcooked lamb... a serving girl in a too big uniform and golden hoops in her ears... Yes! She could be the daughter of a belted earl who was kidnapped and raised by gypsies that lived in a brilliantly painted caravan and vowed vengeance on anyone who worked on the railways for.. for... The pencil goes to Anne's mouth again.

'Next stop Charlottetown! Connections to Mount Melick, Dingwell Mills and Wood Island!'

Wood Island. Anne hasn't been there since she crossed the Strait six years ago. She would have been crossing it now had she taken the Avery scholarship. The thought should make her wistful but it doesn't. After completing her correspondence course Redmond doesn't hold the same allure it used to.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a white gloved hand rapping on the dining cart window. Anne peers out to see her own Diana, tear streaked and smiling so hard her face looks like it might cleave in two. Moments later she is in the mohair-soft arms of her beloved friend; when they pull away it is only to leap up and down on the platform like children. They sound like them too, squealing and laughing unselfconsciously, whilst two young men look on. One of them, the mournful moustached one, clears his throat and looks askance. The other hails a porter and requests Miss Shirley's trunks, valises and various impedimentia are brought to the barouche with turquoise livery.

Anne laughs. 'Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen I presume?' The two men doff their hats and bow. 'I've heard much about you both,' Anne says, noting both men seem pleased with this information. 'But I wonder if Diana has told you anything about me-'

'Darling,' Diana cuts in, 'I haven't been able to talk about anything else since Aunt Jo told me she invited you to stay!'

This comes as a surprise to Anne, who assumed it was Diana who had begged Mrs Barry to let her come. She isn't going to say this in front of the other two, however. She smiles at them again, one of those unexpectedly wicked smiles that keeps a certain teacher in White Sands awake at night. 'Then you must know I barely own enough to fill one trunk, let alone plural. This suitase and my satchel are all I have.'

Mr Olsen glides in to take one and Mr Wilson the other. Diana takes Anne, who allows herself to be manuoevred through the crowded platform like a leaf on a stream, relieved to let someone else be in charge for a change.

Miss Barry is waiting for them in the open carriage and smiles primly at Anne. Her enormous gold hat and pale yellow suit make her look like a chanterelle mushroom. She invites the two girls to sit either side of her while the men take the backwards facing seats. Anne is opposite Mr Olsen who has blonde almost white hair and incongruously dark brows and eyes. The moment he is seated he takes out a small volume of The Canadian Journal of Mathematics and begins to read. Mr Wilson puts on a pair of tinted eyeglasses and crosses his legs. Miss Barry talks about both of them as though they aren't there.

'How do you like Diana's tutors, Anne, have they impressed you with their brilliance, yet? They should do. Mr Wilson won the Avery in '75 and Mr Olsen topped the Entrance exam in '76.'

'Oh, how wonderful!' Anne says, clasping her hands under her chin. 'I did that, too.'

Mr Wilson lowers his eyeglasses and peers at the freckle-nosed girl in her homemade jacket and string of pearls. 'Did you now,' he says smoothly. 'Which one?'

'Why both, Mr Wilson!' Diana says, laughing.

'And that,' Miss Barry says to Anne, 'is why you are here. To do what _these_ two cannot-'

'Pardon me, Miss Barry, but it's not for want of trying-'

'Tush, Mr Wilson!' she says, and smiles benevolently at Anne.

The footman finishes securing Anne's luggage and climbs up beside the driver. The horses move so smoothly Anne hardly realises the journey to Everleigh has begun.

'Miss Barry,' Anne ventures, 'I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.'

'Hasn't Diana told you- Diana Barry, haven't you told her?'

Diana has her arms crossed and is studying the grand stone facade of Charlottetown's largest newspaper across the street. She must have received a nudge because as they enter the mapled loveliness of Galbraith Avenue she suddenly finds her tongue. 'There's nothing to tell, Aunt Jo, because I'm not doing it. Mamma always says there is no point doing something with no point.'

'Well,' says Miss Barry with a slight sniff, 'this won't be the first time I have had a difference of opinion with your mother.'

'Please,' Anne says, appealing to every person in the coach, 'I still have no idea what anyone is referring to or why I was summoned or what this thing is I am supposed to be doing that Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen cannot. If you don't tell me right now I have a good mind to leap over Mr Olsen's top hat, untether one of the horses, and ride bareback all the way to Green Gables!'

Mr Wilson looks askance once more, Mr Olsen snaps his book shut. Who on earth is this ruddy haired maenad to speak to Miss Barry like that! Their expressions betray further shock when they observe the approving twinkle in that eminent lady's eyes.

'Good to see you haven't lost your spark, Anne-girl. Forgive me for not being plainer, I expected my niece would have done you the courtesy of explaining. But as she hasn't-'

'Anne,' Diana interrupts, 'my Aunt has summoned you here because she wishes to have me tested.'

'Well I suppose your tutors need to assess you sometime, Di,' Anne says, bemused.

'Oh Anne! Not any old test. _The_ test. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in your life? There is no possible way for me to do such a thing and not make a complete fool of myself! I could _never_ be ready in two weeks, I could never be ready in two _years!_ It's a nonsense is what it is, and I'm treating it as such. Well, what else am I supposed to think? _Me_ take the Entrance! _Me_ go to Queens!'

Miss Barry wraps her arm around Anne and clutches her shoulder tightly. 'And you, Anne Shirley, are just the one to make her do it!'

 **...**

Thanks again for reading and reviewing and following and faving. I love reading your comments and knowing what you look forward to. Next post on Thursday. Love, k.


	21. the ledges there to slope and spill

It takes seventy minutes in good traffic to get from the Station to Everleigh and Josephine Barry talks for every one. Whether this is because she wants to avoid a scene with her niece or needs to entertain her guest no one is about to enquire. All Anne knows is that she aches from all the nodding. And the waving. Everyone seems to know Miss Barry, from the butcher's apprentice who salutes her and calls out, 'We got your blood pudding, Miss B!' to the gentleman passing in another carriage, who waves his gold cane and utters cryptically, 'Josephine Barry, I demand a rematch.'

In between these odd exchanges Miss Barry points out every new building and flowering tree, anxious to impress Anne with the changes Charlottetown had enjoyed since she was here a year ago.

Anne is impressed. She likes this old town with its harbourside and artists' quarter; the bustle and grime of the city, the fine old mansions in their private grounds. Everleigh is situated on Charlottetown's most prestigious hill. From up there one felt they could survey the whole world, which the lady of the house duly did. Once upon a time she had felt like its ruler, expecting her every wish to be carried out just so. That changed with the arrival -shocking and unladylike though it was- of the Anne-girl. Josephine decided it was time she considered more than her own wishes. She calls herself a Patroness, though what she really does is meddle. Either way it is done with an unselfish heart. She truly wants what's best for people even if they are too stupid or stubborn to recognise the road to their own happiness.

If Anne didn't know Josephine had undergone such a transformation before she arrived, she knew it fully the moment she was shown to her room. The last time she stayed Miss Barry had put her in her 'Sparest of Spare Rooms' which was the size of the entire ground floor at Green Gables, with huge picture windows that took in the magnificent city-scape below. Instead of feeling like a princess Anne felt like a goldfish and spent most of the time on her four poster bed with the drapes drawn cosily round her.

She isn't expecting to sleep there this time. Diana's room is on the third floor and Anne assumes she will be sharing with her. Instead the chamber maid leads her to a room that bears little likeness to the opulence Diana's letters describe. Anne's eyes grow wide as she takes in what Martha calls the 'Starflower' room. The walls are decorated with wallpaper in a deep licorice-green and dotted throughout in tiny white blooms with five pointed petals. Here and there are curled tendrils, leaves, ladybirds, dandelion clocks, and tiny spotted toadstools. The rest of the room is furnished with an armoire, two armchairs, a dressing table similar to Mrs Blythe's, and low wide bed covered in a mossy chenille the same colour as the walls. Anne feels herself Queen of her very own forest, and is lying there devouring it all when Diana appears at the door.

'May I come in?'

Anne leaps from the bed and beckons her. 'Darling I'm sorry, I haven't even changed for dinner. It's this room, it's...'

'You don't find it too spooky? Aunt Jo had it all redecorated the moment she sent the telegram.'

'Spooky? No- but Di I don't want to talk about wallpaper I want to talk about _you_.'

'I'd rather talk about wallpaper.'

Anne unbuttons her dress and throws it over an armchair. 'What about Avonlea then, shall we talk about that? You know just as many things have happened in that dear old place as they have in this grand town.'

Diana sinks onto the bed, she'd like to fall onto it but dares not crumple her gown. She is dressed very elegantly in something Josie might wear, minus all the ribbons Pyes are never seen without. Diana's figure is still as bursting with curves as ever, but the pale blue organdie has been cleverly cut so it accentuates some and diminshes other. Anne is wearing her organdie too, or she would be if she could stop talking.

'Ruby said Myra wanted to name him after Mr Gillis, but you can't call a tiny baby Andrew Andrews. Of course Oren wanted to name him after himself, but Myra thought that could lead to all sorts of misunderstandings. Naturally Mrs Lynde solved the dilemma. Not that she tells people that-'

'Oh no,' says Diana, comfortably, 'Mrs Lynde just hates to take the credit for anything-'

'Exactly. So Myra went to Ladies Meet and Mrs Lynde declared that a woman should please her husband before her father, and if Myra didn't like the name Oren then how about Soren? It's her nephew's name,' Anne adds. 'I may well meet him at the end of summer. He's bringing another bilberry seedling because some _jackanapes_ -Mrs Lynde's word not mine- helped himself to a bit of hers and spoiled the symmetry in her Swedish Corner Garden.'

Diana laughs.

'How _is_ Gilbert Blythe?'

'Ah well, it seems Gilbert may have met his just desserts. He was all set to leave White Sands for the summer when someone broke into his room-'

'No! Was he hurt?'

'He wasn't there when it happened. Just walked into a big mess, or what Mrs Blythe calls an even bigger mess. There wasn't much to take but it was taken anyway. Blanket, clothing, razor, hairbrush-'

'How unhygienic!'

'-the rest was turned over and scattered with paper. It was the blanket Gilbert cared about. He knows who took it, too. The man who owns the boarding house has been trying to buy it off him all year. It's very rare, his great-grandmother made it. Apparently he's devised some trick to catch him out-' Anne says, bending down to look at her hair in the mirror.

'Typical Gil,' says Diana.

'Mmmm,' Anne murmurs, catching sight of her breasts in the mirror. 'Typical Gil.'

Talk of Gilbert Blythe could be expected to augur talk of Frederic Wright. But he doesn't come up till long after dinner. Before they dine another maid, Amelia this time, comes in to say that the first course will be served in ten minutes then offers to 'do' Anne's hair.

Anne readily accepts, curious to what Amelia might conjure and perches on the arm of her chair imagining herself transformed into one of the Godey Girls. Amelia's hands are swift but Anne can't help notice that she makes no braids, twists or coils and hardly uses any pins. She expects to look in the mirror and see a mean little bun like Marilla's. The effect is the opposite. Amelia has undone all the fussy touches and piled Anne's hair in a softly drooping roll, highlighting the thickness and lustre of her hair and the delicate shape of her face. Anne feels eighteen! nineteen! and is so enchanted she kisses Amelia ten times over. An old salt like Amelia is used to giddy girls and stands there stoically whilst Anne makes her cheeks wet.

After much begging to know exactly what Amelia did, she says, 'Something to suit _you_ , Miss, and no one else.'

You are going straight into my story, Anne thinks. She imagines her part in the plot all through dinner. Miss Barry misses the Anne-girl's sparkle but Diana shines enough for both of them. She leads every conversation, from the transcendent volta in Browning's latest, to the public debate between Poincare and Cantor. Granted all Diana's opinions are received wisdom rather than ones she came up with herself, but then so are Mr Wilson's, Mr Olsen's and Miss Barry's. Anne will not be drawn, though she is often invited to, and after dessert when the men escort Miss Barry to her card-game on their way home, Diana asks Anne if she is unhappy here.

'No darling, I'm simply... overwhelmed by the splendour.'

Instead of feeling reassured, Diana's frown deepens. 'You sound like Fred,' she says.

The night is a cool one so they ask for their shawls before heading into the garden. Martha brings both and flutters Anne's over her shoulder.

'Beg pardon, Miss, but that silk is so light, like a butterfly's wings. It almost want to fly!'

Anne finds herself blushing as the shawl lights upon her shoulders the same way it did one morning in January. 'Would you like it,' she blurts, 'my shawl? A friend of mine, Dora, passed it on to me and I'm sure she'd be happy to know I passed it on to you?'

Martha backs away and shoots a look at young Miss Barry.

'It's alright, Martha, Miss Shirley means to be kind.'

The girl bobs quickly then flees, as does Anne, into the candlelit orchard. Diana ordered the boughs of her aunt's ornamental fruit trees to be strung with tiny glass lanterns. The blossoms are aglow with little suns that warm each petal and release a plummy perfume that should thrill Anne to her soul. Instead she hardly notices, mortified by the way she embarrassed the maid.

'Oh Anne, don't take it to heart, you never could help being wonderfully good. Martha just didn't know what to do. It's different in Avonlea, we only have to mind our elders. Here there are convoluted pecking orders, even among the staff-'

'You sound like such a lady, Di-'

Diana frowns again. 'Now you _really_ sound like Fred!'

'Is that bad?'

'Yes -no, I don't know... In his letters he keeps saying how _different_ I sound, how I must have changed so much living in my palace on the hill, while he mucks out the barn and ploughs the fields. He forgets I'm a farmer's daughter just like he's a farmer's son. I think... I think _he_ thinks I don't love him anymore... That's why I have to go back-'

Anne is stunned. She should feel overjoyed, but something about this new development feels wrong. 'Your parents are letting you come back?'

'It's Minnie-May. You know she's been impossible since I left, Mamma's simply worn out. I _have_ to go back, don't you see? I can't choose Queens over my folks -over Fred! That's not love. Love means you sacrifice _everything_. If Fred has to wait two years to see me again- oh Anne, I just know it would break his heart and I could _never_ do that to him.'

As she says this she wraps her arms around herself and stares not at Anne but the petal-strewn lawn. Anne kneels at her feet and makes Diana look at her.

'Diana, are you saying you want to take the Entrance?'

'A little part of me does... But the _biggest_ part of me wants to see Fred again. If I can't have both then I choose him.'

'And are you saying your parents agree to you courting?'

'Heavens no!' Diana erupts. She throws her arms in the air and strides further into the plum trees. Anne stands there for a moment wondering if she should follow when Diana comes marching straight back. 'Papa wouldn't even loan out his hired boy for the Wright's bean harvest! Oh Anne, I was so ashamed. You know there are only a certain number of days you can pick beans before they go tough. The Barrys and Wrights have no more love for each other than the Capulets and the Montagues.'

Diana pronounces Capulet so that it rhymes with bouquet and Montague with vague, and it makes Anne want to cry. Not because Diana has made one of her loveable mistakes, but because they understand each other in a way that no one else can. Not her Mamma, not Josie, not even Fred have the sort of bond they share. This is why she was summoned, Anne knows this now. She guides Diana to a bench seat and takes hold of both her hands.

'I'm going to say something I think you're afraid to say. But I'm not. You want to go to Queens, want it more than anything you've wanted in your life. That's why you're so scared to try, Diana Barry, that's why you want to run home to Fred-'

'I don't want to run home to Fred, I want to _be_ with Fred-'

'But you wouldn't be, don't you see. You'd be hiding and lying just like before. Sooner or later the two of you will be caught again and then you'll lose Fred _and_ this chance-'

Diana huffs but doesn't pull away. 'Some chance, Anne. You took a chance, you won a scholarship and gave it all up. It's what women do, we're _expected_ to give things up.'

'I did it to save my home. Any man would do the same. Do you think Fred would leave Yellow Birches? If it was the other way round, if you said to Fred if you love me come to Charlottetown and find a job in town, would he do it?'

'I would never expect him to. The farm is _everything_ to Fred-'

'Then why is he asking this of you, why doesn't he want you to take the exam?'

Tears come now, Diana closes her eyes and blinks against them but it's too late, they slip down her cheeks and drip from her chin. Anne can't help thinking of Fred, when he sprinted what must have been five miles because he was afraid for his girl.

'He never asked me anything of the sort,' says Diana shakily. 'I never told him I wanted to teach-'

'Di! What sort of love is it if you can't be honest? Our secrets and dreams, we don't share these with just anyone, we offer them up to the ones we love. If Fred can't accept your dreams-'

'Then it isn't love.'

Once Diana says this she reaches for her handkerchief and loudly blows her nose. Anne stands up and invites her to walk again. When they link arms Anne has this shivery sense they will remember this night forever.

'I dreamed of going to Queens. And you encouraged me to go, even though you knew you'd be left behind in Avonlea... getting _fat_ -'

'Ha ha, Anne Shirley. That's different. You're the smart one, I'm just-'

'The pretty one? Diana Barry, you are so much more than that. Imagine for a moment if you happened to go to Queens for a year or two. Your parents would certainly believe you had forgotten about Fred. And if Fred remains true to you -which I believe with all my heart he will- they couldn't help but be impressed by his devotion. When you come back they are bound to give their blessing, and if they don't... Well, you'll be nineteen by then, and a qualified teacher. You could find work in Carmody or White Sands or Newbridge, and court whoever you like-'

'Anne, stop, stop, this is too much! I need time to take this all in, can I just think about it?'

'Of course, darling. Only promise you'll tell me as soon as you decide.'

'Tell you? Anne I don't think I'll stop pestering you from now until you go home.' Diana plucks a plum blossom and tucks it by Anne's ear, then does the same for herself. 'You always said one day I would have need of the Avonlea schoolmarm.'

'Oh...' Anne says, and bites her lip. 'About that-'

 **...**

The last of the short and sweet chapters, or maybe not. I know that Anotherlea needs thirty (shock horror!) chapters. So for those of you thinking, Hmmm let's see how she winds this up, now you know -by adding five more chapters! Oh fanfiction, you are so much fun!

Lylt girl, yeah I mean you.

k.


	22. the thousand wreaths of water smoke

It doesn't take two weeks for Diana to decide, it doesn't even take two hours. After saying her goodnights she lifts a coppery curl by Anne's ear and whispers, 'Anne, I'm going to do it. At least I'm going to try. But I don't want anyone in Avonlea to know. Let's wait and see if I pass first.'

Anne nods reverently, afraid of breaking the spell. She closes her door to her bedroom then immediately slides to the floor, dizzy with the knowledge that Diana Barry, the dark-eyed belle of Avonlea; the ideal of every mother and the dream of every son, has turned her nose up at all of it and chosen her first love... Books!

'And if that's not worth writing about,' Anne murmurs, 'I don't know what is.' She takes out her journal and climbs into bed. For hours her hand struggles to keep up with her thoughts. When she finally stops she kids herself that it can't be more than midnight -except larks don't tend to sing to the moon. Lucky for her Miss Barry shows mercy, and the girl in the Starflower Room isn't looked for until nine. Anne can't remember the last time she slept so late. It's strange to wake to an azure sky instead of a pink one. Stranger still when Martha brings a tray of food to eat _in bed!_

'I'm not ill-' she protests.

'As you please,' says Martha, tying back the curtains.

Behind emerald brocade is a window seat piled high with jewel-coloured cushions and a view of the ornamental plum trees. Once the gold tassles are displayed just so Martha flits to the other side of the room. Anne fights the impulse to ask her if she'd like to share the breakfast and lifts the silver cloche on her tray. Rich, fatty odours of kidneys, kippers, fried bread and blood pudding seep into the room. The lid goes down with a metallic clap and she leaps from her bed and opens the window. A blossom scented wind comes to greet her-and there, in the stronger gusts, the industrious smells of tar, coal, and smoke. She breathes deep until her soul is nourished, then sits cross-legged with her nightgown over her knees observing the way Martha's fine-boned fingers glide over the gowns lined up in the armoire. Once upon a time such a wardrobe would have caused Anne to swoon unto death. Now she wants to laugh.

'Those gowns aren't mine,' she says.

'Beg pardon, but they are,' says Martha. 'Miss Barry ordered them specially.'

'Then I shall tell Miss Barry I wish to wear my own. My little raiments deserve their own day in Charlottetown, don't you think?'

Martha is half-sure if she is being mocked again, until she spies the impish look on Anne's face and allows herself a nervous giggle. 'I dare say I agree. I laid your things in the corner cupboard,' she says, gesturing to a cupboard that has been papered over so as to disappear into the forested walls. 'I thought your dresses the sweetest things, Miss Anne. One of them's almost a match of my own.' Martha dashes to the cupboard and brings out the printed muslin Dora made. 'Lovely to dance in,' she says. Her face lights up then goes out just as quickly, as though a lid had been slammed over her. 'Unfortunately the wind's too brisk for so summery a thing. The Cat's got her claws out today-'

'That's the north wind, isn't it?'

Martha nods, the sandy curls that escape from her cap nodding with her. 'You've been to Charlottetown before, I think.'

'I was a student at Queens, just like- Mr Olsen,' Anne says, horribly close to revealing Diana's secret.

' _I_ know Mr Olsen. Young Miss Barry is with him now, and Mr Wilson-'

'At nine o'clock in the morning?'

'Oh yes. Young Miss B's been up since six!'

Anne throws on her kimono and dashes down the hall to Diana's room. Of course she isn't there, Anne finds her in the library flanked by her tutors. They nod as she approaches and adjourn to the smoking room next door. Anne assumes it is her attire that causes them to flee. She doesn't know Diana asked them to leave the moment Miss Shirley appeared. It all happens very quickly, Diana asks Anne to sit and tells her that as much as they adore each other, and as strong as their friendship is, there's no need to test this bond with Latin tables and algebra. In other words Young Miss B is free to pout, throw pencils and even tantrums at Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen -does Anne really want to see that?

'Just be there at five o'clock with lots and lots of ice cream, can you do that for me, darling?'

'If that's what you really want, Di. But tell me, what should I do all day?'

Diana snorts. 'Anne Shirley, this is Charlottetown, you can do whatever you like!'

Any other girl might have drifted back to bed, but not Marilla's. By ten o'clock Anne has bathed, dressed, packed her satchel and is ready for a glorious day wandering the city and writing about it. She means to walk there but the butler won't have it. He doesn't offer the barouche, he asks -Anne would say commands- her to wait for the apprentice gardener who is heading to the harbour at eleven to collect the orchid rhizomes Miss Barry ordered from England.

Anne appears to be playing hopscotch on the grey and white marble tiles in the foyer when Martha comes with her jacket. She informs the curious Miss Shirley that Vincent is waiting for her, before asking if there is anything else she wants sending besides that big brown envelope.

'Envelope? What envel- oh!' Anne says, clapping her hands over her mouth.

Martha retrieves it from the deep pocket of her apron. Anne notices a length of black ribbon stitched across it and almost laughs. 'I'll deliver it. I meant to do it yesterday, and as I'm heading into town already-'

'By yourself?'

'As you see.'

'But you're meeting someone, aren't you?'

Anne shakes her head and Martha gasps.

'Does Miss Barry know? She never allows her niece out alone, it isn't proper-'

Anne slips her jacket over her red merino dress and plucks the envelope from the maid's hand. 'Never mind, Martha,' she says, 'neither am I.'

Some very improper thoughts go through Anne's head when Vincent helps her into the wagon. He's a slender, chestnut-headed youth not much older than she is, with ivory skin, high cheek bones and a rather dashing nose. Anne thinks he looks just like her beloved Adonaïs, John Keats, and goes so far as to ask Vincent if he has heard of him -and he has. Though the one he knows is a nextdoor neighbour to his sister-in-law.

'She's a widow now, my eldest brother drowned at sea. But it's all to the good. One of these rich merchants built a fine house for widows and orphans. There's a Home for sailors too, the ones who lost their leg or their arm or their senses. That's where Mr Keats lives. I shall tell him he shares the name of a famous poet. Not that he can read. A great iron hook struck his head and took his sight. Imagine that? One minute you can see. The next, nothing.'

'Yes, I can imagine, I think about it every day,' Anne says, candidly. She ignores the startled look Vincent's long-lashed eyes are giving her and hugs her satchel to her chest. Her own grey eyes gaze skyward as the beginnings of a idea form in her head. It looks like the wandering she has planned may not be so aimless after all. 'I wonder, this Sailor's Home, is it close to the harbour?'

'One street back from Arrow Point, that's to the east. We're heading to Mungo Pier on the west side.'

There is no offer to take her there, nor does Anne expect it. Vincent has to be back at Everleigh by early afternoon, Anne has no timetable. What she does have is a card Amelia advised her to produce whenever she requires a seat at a restaurant or is presented with a bill. It's a bright turquoise colour with Miss Josephine Barry's name embossed in silver copperplate. Anne knew better than to decline that offer. After Vincent drops her off she heads into the nearest bookstore and bills a copy of Keats to Everleigh, before buying some fragrant pastries from the bakery across the street. After that she heads east in the direction of Arrow Point.

It doesn't take long to find Mr Keats. Anne is directed to a balding man in shirtsleeves and a corderoy waistcoat. He sits alone on the bench by the front door, his face toward the sun. When Anne approaches him he sniffs the air and says, 'Custard tarts! From Alvarez Bakehouse!'

'How did you know?' Anne says.

'Mrs Alvarez uses preserved lemon not that sickly essence. So tell me, are you here to sell your wares because if you are I'll take 'em all!' When he chuckles his eyelids flicker and Anne has the sense he can see right into her. 'I can picture the look on your face, my girl, don't worry y'self, I won't scoff the lot. I'll take 'em down to the basement and sell 'em to the poor souls who are never allowed outdoors.'

Anne explains she only has two tarts and asks if she can sit. In five minutes she and Mr Keats are chatting like old friends.

'But tell me now,' he says, 'a young lady like yourself didn't come to this part of town to dole out pastries.'

'You're right, Mr Keats. I'm looking for someone-'

'Young man, no doubt. Did you wrong, did he?'

'Nothing like that. I'm trying to track down a boy who left home four years ago and is believed to have gone to sea. He'd be seventeen now. How would I go about finding him?'

'Could be anywhere-' says Mr Keats, uncomfortably.

'Believe me, Mr Keats, I have no plans for revenge. I know his father and his sister. They live in my hometown, Avonlea-'

'Avonlea! If there is a prettier place on the globe then I never saw it -nor am I likely to!' he says, chuckling again. 'Don't believe a maid of Avonlea could ever wish harm on a fellow. Passed through your village twenty years ago and I said to m'self, Bless me, John Keats, if this isn't Eden before the Fall-'

'Mmm,' Anne murmurs. The unexpected and unwanted image of Gilbert Blythe washing up in the tin bath flashes through her, and she shifts away in case Mr Keats can feel the heat from her blush. 'But the boy, let's say he did become a sailor, what would be the best way to find him?'

'Ran away at thirteen, you say? Well, if he wanted to go to sea he would have taken a job as a cabin boy. That means working your bigger vessels for the shipping lines, rather than fishing and netting. You'd want to pay a visit to the Port Authority, they carry a log of all the ships that pass through here. It's not likely they'll let you read it, though, a lassie like y'self. You'll have to go with your father.'

Anne shakes her head, then remembers to say no. 'I don't think that will help. It's likely this boy's father has already searched the shipping records back when he went missing- except... perhaps he didn't?'

'I don't take your meaning?'

Anne thinks back to all the times she left written instructions for Martin; how he would always come and ask her to go over it word for word in case he missed anything. Could it be Martin never learned to read? Anne thinks of Mrs Blythe's letter now, perhaps she might do more than just deliver it.

'Mr Keats, would there be records at the Charlottetown Echo? They post lists of boats and crew don't they, the bigger ones at least?'

'They do that. Hold their archives in the attics. But again, it's whether they let a moppet like you get near' em.'

'Well, they'll just have to,' Anne says. She opens her satchel and takes out the volume of poetry. 'I bought a book by your poet's namesake. I thought someone here might read it to you, but I wonder... I have some free time this week, and the next. May I come again and read aloud, would you like that?'

The wetness that springs from John Keat's eyes is confirmation enough and they agree to meet later that week. Anne hails a cab and heads to the Station. The wind stings her cheeks and she huddles into her jacket thinking she might suggest hot chocolates over ice cream when she returns to Everleigh this evening.

The Charlottetown Echo is an ornate five storeyed building, its fussy painted edifice softened by nesting birds and wild vines that curls among its cornices. The grey marble stairs are divided by an iron rail where men and women file in and out. Anne joins them, her brown paper envelope tucked under her arm, her most queen-like expression on her face. There is a line to speak with the man at reception. When it's her turn Anne stands a little taller and juts out her chin. She hasn't attempted this ruse since she lived with the Hammonds, when she would dodge the mawkish attentions of the drunken husband by pretending to spot his wife.

'Good day, I have instructions to deliver this to Mr Oliver-' she says, mentioning the name of the man Mrs Blythe has addressed the manuscript to.

A pale ink-stained hand shoots out. Anne stares at it, silent and unmoving. Someone behind her says, 'What's the hold up?' Another calls out, 'I ain't got all day!'

'Well, hand it over,' says the receptionist.

Anne juts out her chin even further. 'I assumed you were going to summon Mr Oliver. Don't worry, I can wait- Oh, there he is!' Anne waves her envelope wildly. 'I'll give it to him, shall I?-' she says, and without waiting for an answer jogs to a large potted plant by the main staircase.

After a cursory glance the receptionist turns away. The moment he does Anne takes the stairs two at a time. Once she gets to the top floor she removes her hat in order to appear like a member of staff. She is placing her green beret into her satchel when a large woman in a tight grey suit appears from one of several doors that line the corridor.

'Where have you been, I was told to expect you an hour ago? Well come on, grab your notebook, the meeting's already begun!' Anne's arm is gripped so tightly she winces. Her attempts to explain are ignored. 'Shhh,' the woman hisses. 'You can make your apologies after.' She takes her place at far end of the table and motions for Anne to sit in a small spindle-backed chair. A few other people click their tongues, one mutters, suggestively, 'I say...' Anne sits there with her eyes wide and her mouth drawn into a tight little knot. She is about to stand up and apologise, that is until the woman in the tight grey suit mentions the name Dr Lavendar.

'But _how_ do we capitalise on such momentum? Our readers are simply mad for him-'

'Find some other Quack and get him to write a column, too!'

Anne drops her journal and receives a withering look.

'Land's sakes, girl. We were told you topped your secretarial course. Are you getting this?'

Anne nods, licks her pencil and does her best to scribble down the conversation. She tells herself she's doing this for the unfortunate secretary who clearly got lost. In truth Anne is bursting with curiosity. Could it be the man himself is sitting in this very room? She scans each face discreetly, but none look a bit like the illustration that accompanies his column. Dr Lavendar has a handle-bar moustache and twinkling eyes that speak of cold baths and rude good health. The people in this room seem strangers to sunshine, and smell of cigar-smoke and drug-store cologne.

'You muttonheaded fustilugs!' says one with stained brown teeth. 'We don't want _two_ Dr Lavendar's, we want something _new!_ We find another fellow even half as popular and we'll lure in dollars from the Mainland-'

'New to be sure, but _not_ newfangled. Whoever we find, he must relate to the common man-'

'What about a war correspondent?'

'The diary of an explorer?'

'I said the _common_ man! The Harbour crowd, not the Hill crowd! Something to get them buying our paper week after week the way Lavendar does...'

Everyone scribbles frantically, hoping to appear inspired.

'Useless, all of you!' says the man at the head of the table. He stands up, sheds his jacket and scratches his chest through his shirt. 'You! Cherry!' he says, pointing to Anne. 'That for me?'

'Mr O-Oliver?' Anne stammers.

'Doesn't even recognise the Editor-in-Chief,' the grey suited woman mutters.

'Well,' says Mr Oliver, 'who's it from?'

Anne looks down at the envelope she has placed between the pages of her journal. She is about to say Mrs Rowena Blythe then realises there is no return address on the back. If Mr Oliver suspects Anne has gone through his mail he might do more than throw her out, he might call the constabulary.

'I don't know?' she says, weakly.

'Don't know? Well open it!' Mr Oliver orders, strutting toward the window.

Anne tucks her pencil into her hair and opens the envelope carefully. Inside there is a brief letter in Rowena Blythe's lively handwriting outlining the contents of the manuscript. Anne's eyes flick over it.

'Well come along, Plumpuff. Who's it from?'

The Plumpuff stands up slowly, overcome with the need for something to hold onto, and grips the back of her chair. Her knuckles are white spots, her knees gone to water. She looks to the staff slouching round the table expecting them to laugh... mock... something... There has to be some mistake- This can't be right- it's not true- it can't be-

'It's- it's- the column for next week's paper, sir,' Anne says, hoarsely. 'It's from... Doctor Lavendar.'

 **...**

 _* Adonaïs is a reference to Shelley's elegy to John Keats, 1821.  
_

Thanks for reading. I've had to slow my output due to other commitments, but plan to update Anotherlea at least once a week. I hope you enjoyed this good old cliff hanger... duh duh duuuuh! Did anyone guess?

love k.


	23. A broken purpose

In the formal dining room of Everleigh, among the plink and plunk of Miss Barry's Swiss music box and the lazy licks of a golden fire comes the ding, ding of a silver spoon striking against fine crystal.

'Anne, have you finished that?'

Anne slides her parfait glass in Diana's direction, her eyes upon the fire.

'Now I know how you got to be as slim as you are, you just never eat,' Diana says. She looks in the direction of her aunt, who is snoozing in one of the wing backed chairs that sit either side of the fireplace, then runs her tongue along a spoon the shape of a lion's paw. 'Mmmm, clotted cream,' she gushes. 'Oh Anne, how can you resist... _Anne?_ '

'Sorry, Diana I was...'

'Don't tell me you're 'overwhelmed by the splendour' again. You've been here over a week, I would have thought you'd be just _whelmed_ enough by now-'

Anne smiles faintly and gives her friend a sidelong glance. 'Di, I don't know what Mr Wilson told you but that's not how you use whelm in a sentence.'

'Ha!' says Diana. The spoon clatters into her glass sending yellowy droplets all over the crisp white table cloth. 'I knew that would work. Good ol' Gilbert Blythe.'

'What's Gilbert got to do with it?' Anne sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. She's wearing one of Miss Barry's gowns this evening, with sleeves that finish just below her shoulder. Something about the way the light falls on her skin reminds her of the glow inside the snow cave. She glances at Diana again, but the girl only has eyes for her dessert.

'That's what he used to do,' she says, 'make deliberate mistakes in order to get your attention. You never could resist correcting him.'

'Well someone had to come to the defense of the English language. Speaking of which, have you memorised your soliloquy yet, Mr Wilson mentioned-'

'As if I want to talk about that -or _him._ You know, I opened my Shakespeare today and found a pressed rose inside! Have you ever?'

'In which play?'

'It was a sonnet. Number twenty... which is strange because we're not supposed to study that one- _Oh!'_ Diana tilts her head and narrows her glinting eyes. 'Ho ho, Miss Anne! You can't put me off that easily, I want to know why you're so quiet all the time-'

'Yes, tell us, Anne-girl,' Miss Barry says, her heart-shaped face appearing from behind the arm of her chair. 'I must say I am most disappointed in you this visit. Out gallivanting all day, not a peep from you all evening. I have half a mind to invite that Prattling Polly back. What was her name, Diana?'

'Tilly Boulter,' Diana huffs. 'And she _is_ coming back. She wangled herself an invitation to the Ball.'

'Ball?' Josephine Barry sits tall in her chair. 'Now Diana I'm very proud of the way you're preparing for this exam and more than happy to hold a little party to celebrate the day you sit it. But I don't recall saying I would throw you a Ball.'

'I never said it was a Ball, Aunt Jo, that was all Tilly. She _aggrandises_ everything just so she can boast about it afterwards. I'm sure half of Charlottetown has heard about it by now.'

'That would explain why I received a dozen calling cards this morning. All wanting an invite no doubt.'

Diana rolls her eyes and dips her spoon into her ice cream again, Miss Barry returns her gaze to the unsatisfactory guest. Anne feels herself being studied and leaves the table to select a new air to play on the music box.

'Well, Anne, since it appears we are having a Ball is there anyone you would care to invite?'

'No one who would have anything suitable to wear to such a grand occasion, Miss Barry.'

'Fiddle faddle! Any young man good enough for you certainly owns a suit! You may invite him if you like-'

'Invite _who?'_ Anne says, turning swiftly.

'The swain you're clearly pining for. I must say I am very intrigued to meet him-'

'And I might say it's very unimaginative of you to assume such a thing,' Anne retorts. 'It's possible for a girl to have other things on her mind than just boys -or does that advice only apply to Diana?'

Diana almost chokes on her spoon but Miss Barry laughs. The sinews in her neck pull tight, making her look more mushroomy than ever.

'Broke your heart did he? That explains it-'

'Miss Barry, I am not broken and I am not pining. I'm just very, very, _very_... UGH!'

Anne's arms fly up in frustration, she stamps her foot and runs from the room. Diana rises from her chair. Her aunt's hand presses her down again.

'Leave her, dear, we'll find out soon enough,' she says, lightly, then rings the bell for more ice cream.

Anne sprints up the first two flights of stairs but dawdles to the third, suddenly reluctant to be in her room. When she gets there she finds her blankets have been turned down, her lamp is lit and there are merry flames crackling in the grate. It's all cosy and convenient and Anne is glad because the secrets she holds require so much from her she's not sure she remembers how to start a fire.

No, not a fire, she could never forget how to do that. Something else, like undoing these fussy petal-shaped buttons on her lemon chantilly gown. Or fall asleep. How can any girl sleep with so many secrets inside her head?

They are crammed in as follows:

There is a pesky triangle between her legs that is red, curly and couldn't possibly belong there. Secondly, or should that be first, Diana Barry is taking the Entrance to Queens in six days time and no one in Avonlea is allowed to know. But they will. Diana is set to pass and pass well. Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen are as talented as they are handsome, but there is a reason for Mr Wilson's mournful appearance, and it's the same reason Mr Olsen keeps his jet-black eyes ever focussed on a book. Which brings Anne to secret number three. The rose in Sonnet Twenty was not for Diana. This ties in neatly with secret number four. Forbidden love. Martin Rossi's heart is certainly taken, and it appears Marilla Cuthbert has it in her keeping. Whether Marilla knows she holds such a possession Anne isn't sure, what she does know is that Marilla is not looking for a husband. Sooner or later Martin will cotton on to that fact and having his son returned to him just might soften the blow. Which is secret number five, because Anne hasn't told anyone what she is doing with her days in case Davy Rossi gets wind of it. But how do you look for someone without mentioning their name? She did think of asking Mrs Blythe for advice but that requires a letter, and Anne doesn't even begin to know how to write that.

And there it is, the secret to surpass every other secret; the one that makes her act like a love-struck fool. And it just had to concern a Blythe.

When Anne discovered the identity of Dr Lavendar, or rather read out that imaginary man's name to the entire senior staff of the Charlottetown Echo, she was filled with that eerie sense that she was outside her body and looking in. The last time she felt that way Mrs Spencer walked by the line of orphan girls in the asylum and picked her. The world fell sideways and she held onto her chair as the woman in the grey suit picked up Mr Oliver's envelope from the floor. Anne floated out of the room. Someone called out. Not her name, another girl's, so she kept walking, up another flight of stairs; these were dustier, creakier, the air in the stairwell thick and hot. She fell against the door of Archive Room D, and stared at the tops her of boots peeping out from her red dress for what seemed like hours, until a man appeared with a load of boxes and went into Archive Room F.

Anne pulled herself up when she heard him approach, gave him what she hoped was courteous nod, and followed. The trick to not looking out of place was to act like you belonged there and Jonathan from book-keeping accepted Anne's presence immediately. He even asked if she would like to go for some dandelion ale at Walsey Street drugstore after work.

'I'm engaged,' Anne had said, 'to a medical student,' she added -what on earth possessed her to say that?

'Lucky fellow,' Jonathan replied, and apologised for thinking her much younger than she was.

Anne made the most of his beet red blush and asked him to help her find the Maritime archives for 1877; jotting down the list with her small yellow pencil. Jonathan had helped her to find that, too. He pulled it out of her ruddy coils and said again, 'Very lucky fellow,' then reluctantly left the room.

After that Anne becomes a regular sight at the harbour with her newly purchased notebook and a pencil in her hair, asking everyone from captain to cabin boy if they remember a thirteen year old runaway. Unsurprisingly there are many runaways, miraculously there are some good leads, most wonderfully of all Anne discovers she thrives on the work. She wakes every day undaunted and determined. Which is fortunate, because every night Anne comes home brimming with secrets she can't tell and, worst of all, unable to fall asleep.

Tonight is going to be no different. Anne knows that before she closes the door. She doesn't bother putting on her nightdress because she always tears it off at some point during the night, weary of the way it ends up twisting round her hips and making sleep impossible. There is an unexpected comfort to sleeping in nothing at all. She likes to kick up her toes and feel cool gusts of air run all over her body. Soon the pillow feels hot, and she swaps it for another and another, and the next thing she knows they are under her knees, pressed into her back, being held in her arms... And then, because why not, practice make perfect after all, Anne kisses her pillow and squeezes the one that has somehow got between her thighs, and it all feels very easy, too easy, to be tangled up in bed like this.

If she was not in bed, if she was in that stuffy attic, instead of drawing the pencil from her hair Jonathan from book-keeping might pluck it from the daringly low collar of her imaginary dress. Her nipples harden and she touches them -or did she touch them and they went hard? Jonathan doesn't care, he drops the pencil and kisses her collarbone and... No- Anne would have kicked him in the shin by now and dumped the 1877 Maritime file over his neatly combed head.

Vincent then. And they aren't in some stuffy room, they are outside strolling the grounds of Everleigh. Anne opens her eyes and looks at her forested walls; the way the light of the fire plays over it, caressing each leaf till a spicy scent of aniseed perfumes the room. Anne imagines rain falling, the thunder rolls and oh! She is drenched before they can make it to the Orangery. Vincent leads her to a great sheltering tree. Her lemon chantilly clings to her limbs and he peels off his checkered shirt in order to dry her face. He's so handsome and thoughtful and safe, yes safe. Anne squeezes the pillow between her thighs, the word like a whisper of love. She moans softly then leans on her elbow and traces a finger on what she imagines is his chest. He moans back, his ribs rise quickly and his nipples are as hard as hers. Anne doesn't know what she likes more, eliciting those secret sounds or watching him make them. Then his hands are on her and he pulls the pillow away from her thighs and touches her oh so gently and it's bliss... bliss... bliss... bliss... yet agony too. Because no man is ever going to touch her like that, because Anne is never getting married.

And neither is he.

After that she sleeps. It's easy to do once that tantalising itch has been scratched, and in the pale light of each new dawn she feels around for her nightgown and slips it on because what would Martha say otherwise?

On the day of Diana's exam Anne is up before Martha appears and is picking up all the pillows -why does a feather-bed need six pillows?

'I'd have to spend the night in a feather-bed before I can answer that,' Martha says, as they walk down the stairs together.

The servants are having their breakfast at a quarter to six this morning because today is the day of the ball. It's also the first day Anne has been invited to eat 'downstairs'. Cook is expecting some picky eating. Troublesome requests for hulled berries and fresh honey and vanilla scented cream, when she has enough to be getting on with, and is gratified to see Anne take a great dollop of porridge and dive into it hungrily.

Vincent appears in his overalls. Anne feels herself go hot, that is until he strides up to Martha and gives her a small posy of mayflowers.

'For you to wear to the dance tonight,' he says, gallantly. He then turns to Anne as if nothing has happened and tells her he can give her a ride to town this morning because he's collecting a four foot ice sculpture from the cool stores at Mungo Pier.

'I'll be taking the barouche today,' she announces, and watches the butler grimace. It transforms into a smile when Anne adds, 'I'm accompanying Young Miss B to Queens.'

The kitchen is filled with 'Oohs' and 'Dear Miss Bs' and 'Wish her lucks' and it makes Anne heartglad to know Diana has become so loved. She turns to the Cook and asks if she could prepare a tray to take into Diana's room, and is given the biggest blessing of all.

'Help yourself to whatever you like,' says Cook. 'If it were up to me Young Miss B could have the moon!'

Diana is doing a rather good impression of that heavenly body when Anne enters her suite half an hour later. She is on her hands and knees in her undergarments looking for her 'lucky garters'; her hair white with rags, her face waxy and pale.

'I'm going to fail, I'm going to fail, I'm going to fail-' she mutters, and peers under her bed.

Anne removes the garters from the finials on either side of her dressing table mirror and dangles them in front of her friend. Diana pouts like a chastened child and perches on the edge of the bed as though her bones have turned to steel. Anne kneels before her and raises Diana's petticoats. They lie in translucent pleats on her thighs which jiggle up and down in an agitated fashion as she whines.

'I never got a wink of sleep, not a wink... I kept thinking about hypoteneuses and declensions and rhyming schemes and what a foehn is and whether wool or grain is the chief export in New Zealand and when Mary Queen of Scots got her head chopped off-'

'I'll chop your head off in a moment!' Anne says.

She slides her stockings up over Diana's knees and secures her garters over them. As she does this the opening in the crotch of Diana's drawers falls open and there, unmistakably, is a dark triangle. Anne pulls Diana's skirts down swiftly and kisses her clammy cheek.

'Diana Barry, you beautiful, beautiful girl!' she gushes, and pulls her into her arms.

Diana snaps out of her panic at the feel of Anne's rallying embrace.

'Thank you, darling!' she says. 'For a moment I forgot myself!' She falls back onto her bed and giggles. 'If I make a hash of this monstrous test it hardly matters, I'll always be the Belle of Avonlea!'

She is the Belle of Charlottetown that evening, the girl everyone wants to be near, to be talking to, to be dancing with. After spending a dizzying half hour at her side and another with Miss Barry, Anne slips away into the foyer. Martha is by the west wing entrance which is situated near the stables. She sits on the more humanly proportioned brick stoop, her scrubbed pink face peering down the curved drive. She's wearing the mayflowers in her hair and a delicate lilac organdie that Miss Shirley gave her this afternoon. The colour makes the green in her amber eyes glow like a cedarwood fire.

'It's my fault Vincent's late,' Anne says. She tucks up the skirts of her navy georgette and nestles next to Martha. 'He's gone to collect a friend of mine. Miss Barry said I might invite whomever I like, so I thought I might as well test her generosity.'

'Oh Miss Barry's very generous. She likes to give us the evening off whenever there's a grand do. She told Amelia it's because she wants for us to enjoy ourselves, but Amelia says she always gets outside help for nights like this. People tend to misbehave at parties and Miss Barry doesn't want _her_ staff telling any tales.'

'I think Miss Barry is right on both counts. It's nice to have your own dance but it's also nice not having to keep any secrets, don't you think?'

'Yes!' says Martha emphatically. 'It's been awful trying to remember not to let the cat out of the bag about Young Miss B writing that test. I don't know why she doesn't want anyone to know, I'd be proud as proud if it was me.'

'She is proud, Martha. Some things... well, some things are just better said face to face. We'll go home tomorrow and Diana will tell her folks and then...'

'And then?'

'Well... Diana Barry will come to her own bend in the road. Speaking of which, look who's coming round the drive!'

The two girls stand up and wave to the men in the wagon. Vincent leaps from his seat and whistles for the stable boy. He is about to help his passenger down when Anne stops him.

'That's alright, Vincent, I'll do it. You go dance with your girl.'

Vincent doesn't need telling, but he does look back at that peculiar Miss Shirley as he links arms with Martha.

'She looks like a sky full of stars tonight,' he says.

'Doesn't she, though? Folks are always going on about Young Miss B. But when Miss Shirley wants to, she outshines all those fine ladies,' she says, nodding her head in the direction of the main house. 'I shall miss her, Vin.'

'Not as much as the gent who came with me,' Vincent says.

He kisses Martha's hand and leads her to the party the servants are holding at the Gatehouse. Anne walks around to the other side of the wagon.

'I'm so glad you could come.' Her voice catches as she admires him in his old quartermaster's uniform. The silver cord is almost threadbare but his buttons have been polished to such a shine they are look purple in the light of a dusky sky. 'You look splendid,' she adds, as she leads him into the house.

'An' so do you, mavourneen.'

'Mr Keats, how could you possibly know that?'

'I can feel it runnin' right the way through you -you'll make me handsome next. Tell me you saved a dance for an old sea dog?'

Diana Barry's Leaving Ball is talked about for months after. This was mainly due to Anne opening the windows to let in a breeze, and causing the ice swan to melt into something resembling Priapus. The resulting puddle causes the party to move outside. The band moves too and Miss Barry's guests waltz between the plum trees, while the drunker ones make snow angels in the fallen petals.

Mr Keats has his dance with Anne and spends the remainder of the evening entertaining a coterie of mothers, aunts, widows and spinsters who've been told they are too old for Balls but like to dress up all the same. Right now Mr Olsen is dancing with Diana, and Mr Wilson is gazing at them with his usual mournful expression. Tomorrow he is going to Summerside to teach Italian to some Pringle girls. Whether Mr Olsen can find work in the same town is doubtful.

Diana is begged for another dance by a new partner and rather than sit Mr Olsen asks Anne if there is space on her dance card for him?

'You look especially lovely tonight, Miss Shirley,' he says, cupping his hand around her waist. 'I've never seen you happier now you know you're going home.'

'You look more mournful than Mr Wilson.'

'Any man would be saddened to leave Miss Barry,' Mr Olsen responds, smoothly.

'Of course,' Anne agrees. 'Have you enjoyed your time here? The grounds at Everleigh are breathtaking in Summer. You've been so busy teaching I suppose you never had time to explore. The Orangery in the far north corner is especially magnificent. It's a shame no one goes there. Except the head gardener, he's creating a new variety of rose. I'm afraid Diana will be engaged all evening, perhaps your colleague, Mr Wilson, might like a tour...'

'Tom's leaving tomorrow.'

'I know,' says Anne. She reaches into the sash of her dress and takes out a pressed red rose. 'I may be wrong, Mr Olsen, but I believe this was meant for you.'

It looks as though Jakob Olsen is about to deny all knowledge of such a gesture. Then he shakes his head, places it in top pocket of his dinner jacket, and gives her a knee trembling smile.

'You amaze me, Miss Shirley. I was so ready not to like you, but how can I when everything you touch turns out so wonderfully well. How do you do it?'

Anne beams and squeezes his hand. 'Because you let me,' she says.

Just before midnight she is seated with Mr Keats again, who is polishing off his fourth chocolate mousse and consequently undone all his silver buttons. Anne had skipped dessert and took a long stroll, farewelling every room and tree. The same smell that greeted her that first morning came to keep her company as she said goodbye. It is the smell of possibility, adventure and romance and it claimed a place in her heart. Tomorrow she would be there for the triumphal return of Diana. Anne is happy and excited for her dearest friend, but she feels disappointment too. She hasn't found Martin's son and it looks like she never will.

By the time she returns to the emptying orchard she is footsore, and kicks off her slippers and tucks her feet under her gown. Diana is still dancing. Tilly Boulter is watching her jealously and wishing she had a rich old aunt. The aunt is in the formal dining room making the man with the gold cane wish he had never asked for a rematch. Mr Wilson and Mr Olsen are nowhere to be seen.

'Did you happen to meet the Admiral's wife?' says Mr Keats, licking chocolate from the corners of his mouth.

'Which Admiral's wife?' Anne says, stifling a yawn. 'There must have been ten of them.'

'Captains' and Lieutenants' wives maybe, but there's only one Mrs Handscomb. Lovely lady, recognised my rig. Turns out her grandson was midshipman on the White Hart.'

'She was one of yours, wasn't she?'

'Sloop, Osprey class. I wish you'd met her, the lady not the ship, for she told me an interesting story-'

'If this is about the boy I'm looking for it's no good,' Anne says, glumly. 'The best lead we had ended in Tignish. There's been no record of Ross or Keith or whatever he's calling himself since last October-'

'But that's what I wanted to tell you, he was there round Christmas, I'm sure of it!' Mr Keats puts his empty dish on the table in front of him and assumes what Anne has come to call his 'story-telling face'. 'Just before New Year a schooner called the Phoenix foundered off North Cape,' he says, eagerly. 'A lone fisherman was the only witness and ventured into the storm to get those men ashore, not once but-'

' _Four_ times! I read all about it, Mr Keats. I must say it's a wonderful story but what has that to do with Martin's boy?'

'One of the men he rescued was Mrs Handscomb's grandson. He told her that the fisherman went by the name of Keith -only he wasn't a man but lad about sixteen, with fair hair and a gap between his two front teeth!'

'Mr Keats, I don't understand. Are you saying there are two boys matching our description?'

'Just the one, I reckon. After that snow storm hit the Island that same boy _disappeared_. And it's a durned shame he did, cherie. The Handscombs travelled all over the north coast looking for him. They want to give him a reward. One thousand dollars!'

Anne leaps from her chair, stocking feet forgotten. She wraps her arms around Mr Keats and kisses him, impulsively. 'It's him, oh Mr Keats I know it's him,' she cries, 'and you have just given me a thousand reasons why I can never give up!'

 **...**

 _* about Victorian undies, they were basically two short pant legs fastened at the waist and open at the crotch because it was almost impossible to gather your skirts up with one hand in order to go to the toilet. Not having to pull them down down meant you could simply squat. Before that women didn't wear them at all. That's right, readers, Elizabeth Bennet had no knickers!_

 _* mavourneen means beloved or darling_

 _* Priapus was a god of fertility. I'll let you figure out the rest!_

 _* an orangery is a large, ornate glasshouse_

 _* Tignish is the biggest town by the north cape of P.E.I._

 _* Ross is a nod to Rossi, Keith is a nod to Davy's original last name in Anne of Avonlea_

Of course that's not the only nod. You can't write a homage to Maud without featuring some benign old person leaving money to a motherless child. Now back to Avonlea... I know some of you have been waiting for a certain someone to show up again, I'll do my best to make your wait worth it.

love k.


	24. Waste not thou

When Anne returns home she can't help think of Tilly Boulter. As she steps onto the platform at Bright River her first instinct is to say how small everything looks. She's never felt this way before and would never say it out loud, yet the closer she gets to Avonlea the more she is struck by the quaintness of the countryside, its sweetness and neatness. How did Mr Keats put it? Like Eden. And he's right. The problem is Adam and Eve grew bored of Eden in the end. Why else did they break the rules?

' _Anne?_ ' Diana says, nudging her. It's not hard to do, they are squeezed in the front seat with Mr Barry -no barouches here- because the back of the wagon is piled high with hayseed. 'I did think once we got home you'd start talking again.'

If she sounds cross it's because she is. Diana had visions of being met at the station by Fred Wright. He'd be wearing the white straw hat she ordered from an elegant store in the best part of town. And he'd have her favourite flowers in his hands and a loveable look on his pink cheeked face; one of those wide grins that brought out his dimples and made Diana bite her lip. That he wasn't there was hardly surprising. But it is disappointing, and it's hard to hide that from her father when her bosom friend is not holding up her end of the conversation.

Anne realises this instantly and tries to make a joke. 'Di, you know very well that it's rude to speak with your mouth full. How can I talk when I'm _feasting_ on all this loveliness? But you're right, this place does remind me of your Aunt's orchard. Though I don't remember the White Way of Delight being this short-'

'You mean the Avenue?' says Mr Barry. He takes one hand off the reins and gestures to the blossoming branches that rain on his hat. 'Happens it is shorter. Lost six trees in that storm last winter. How'd that cherry in your yard hold up?'

Anne takes a long look at the Snow Queen when she gets home and decides she seems shorter too; her white room boxier; the iron bed too narrow to contain her limbs. That night she lies on top of her quilt, yanking at her nightgown when what she wants to do is take it off. The Godey girls laugh again, thankfully Grey Bear is hidden under her cloak.

Anne lights her lamp and takes out her journal. She tells herself she might as well jot down some notes about Davy Rossi but is soon diving headlong into a love scene between the Ticket Inspector and the red headed gypsy girl with the gold hoop earrings. She has him standing over her grave and is placing that last satisfying full stop at the end of her final, tragic sentence before she sleeps. When she wakes a few hours later she is already thinking about how to change her ending into something more hopeful. But June on a farm is not like June in town. By six she is wearing the only dress that didn't make it into the dye pot because it was too short, a denim apron and a wide brimmed hat, and is ready to pick the first of the spinach from the south fields.

Marilla takes one look at her and laughs. 'I don't know whose spinach you're picking. The south fields belong to George Barry now.' She presses Anne into her chair at the kitchen table and serves her a dollop of oatmeal topped with fresh butter and grated nutmeg.

'Where is Dora?' Anne says suddenly.

Marilla shifts to the washing up basin and starts scrubbing the porridge pot noisily.

'Dora?' Anne repeats, 'I haven't seen her this morning?'

'She and her father are working on their own place-'

'In Carmody?'

'No-' a pause, 'closer than that.'

It does not escape Anne's notice that Marilla is being uncharacteristically vague. She shrugs and eats her breakfast. Perhaps Marilla feels another headache coming on. She is going to a different oculist tomorrow, a Dr Chowdury, who lives in Kensington. Anne mentioned him in one of her letters after spotting his advertisement in the Charlottetown Gazette. The Gazette is considered the more genteel newpaper and subscribed to by every Hill resident and anyone else who considers themselves a cut above the usual flimflam. The Pyes are Gazette people, as are the Andrews and the Sloanes. Mrs Barry considers all newspapers gossip and won't allow them at Orchard Slope -though this didn't prevent Diana donating twenty old copies of the Echo to the school outhouse.

Diana is 'At Home' today and Anne expects her to remain there. Mr and Mrs Barry informed their daughter that the moment she takes even one step in the direction of Yellow Birches she will be sent straight back to Everleigh. Diana consented, because what else could she do? It's up to Anne to haunt the post office and check when the pass list comes out.

After lunch Anne changes out of her work clothes and into one of Miss Barry's dresses. She is on her way back to Green Gables that afternoon when when she spies Rowena Blythe on a ladder, training her white rose around the peeling latticework that adorns the front of the Blythe place. Her son is holding her steady, but on seeing Anne he lets go and runs out to meet her.

'Anne, it's good to see you,' he says, though it's possible the last three words never made it out of his mouth because Anne replies with,

' _What's_ good?'

To be fair those two words are all Anne can manage. She hasn't seen Gilbert for almost a month and is half afraid, half excited to see him again. But there is no sultry seducer before her. Just the same boy she's known since she was eleven. Only taller, broader, browner, bigger. It's such a relief she hastens toward him. Gilbert hadn't counted on that. To him it appeared that Anne was about to walk by his house without giving much more than a wave. He miscalculates his stopping time and they bump into each other, chests first, heads second. In the rebound Anne is rubbing her forehead and Gilbert his chin. But what he is thinking about, what he can still feel, are Anne's breasts pressing into his ribs. He crosses his arms, takes another step back and takes her all in, because the Anne he sees is not the Anne he remembers. He doesn't notice her new dress so much as what it accentuates. Two rows of white piping bisect each shoulder. These run down to her waist which is cinched tight with a white leather belt. The effect is like a map that describes every curve upon a turquoise green so fluid it reminds him of a stream.

'You look... different,' he says.

Anne stops rubbing her head and cocks it to one side. 'And that's _good?_ '

Gilbert's brow crumples as he tries to understand how this simple greeting has gone so wrong. To make things more awkward his mother comes over.

'Anne, don't you look smart! Charlottetown certainly agrees with you, doesn't she look the lady, Gilbert? Do you have time for tea?'

Gilbert mutters yes just as Anne mutters no.

'I-I've just come from the post office, Mrs Blythe- to see if the results have been posted- for my pupils-' she adds, not able to meet Rowena's eyes.

'So no tea then?' Rowena says, mildly.

'Marilla's going to Kensington tomorrow-'

'So no tea?'

Anne glances at her briefly. 'Sorry, no, another time.'

She has already crossed the road when Rowena calls out, 'Give my best to Marilla, won't you?'

Anne tips the hat she isn't wearing and marches up Newbridge Road. She can feel Mrs Blythe's gaze upon her. When she feels her hand being grabbed she half expects to turn around and see cat-like eyes looking back at her, instead of Gilbert's hazel ones.

'Not so fast,' he says. He drops her hand and shoves his into the pockets of his overalls. 'I wanted to ask if you're free tomorrow?'

'Well, I- yes- in the afternoon I am. I'm going to church with the Barrys in the morning, then having lunch with Jane. But after that I have no plans.'

Anne had in fact been looking forward to having Green Gables to herself. Martin is driving Marilla to Kensington and Dora is accompanying them. This is for two reasons. The first being what would the Ladies Aid say if a spinster and a widower spent the night out of town without a chaperone? The second because there's a merchant there who sells good, serviceable fabric at prices far lower than Lawsons or Blairs. Dora is aiming to buy enough drill cotton for all the windows in their new house, and some linen off-cuts for the kitchen and wash house. Anne is hoping to have a good deep soak in the copper tub on the back porch. Diana presented Anne with her own little bottle of cologne last week. A fruity concoction of peach and sweet almond that Anne plans to pour straight into her bath. She doesn't say this, of course, she just goes an infuriating shade of pink when Gilbert asks if he can see her.

'Uh, I- ah-' she stammers.

'I'm going to hunt out my knife tomorrow in that wood where we almost froze to death,' he says, cheerfully. 'I thought you might like to come along, see how different it is in summer. We could pay our respects to the troll if you like?'

A grin breaks over Anne's face that is an unexpected to her as it is to Gilbert. 'Yes! Yes I would like to see him. I would, Gilbert. Shall I bring a picnic?'

'I'll take care of that.'

The spectacular grin diminishes somewhat. 'You're not baking a cake, are you?' Anne says, but Gilbert is already racing away.

'Meet me by the old pine at two,' he calls. 'Oh and Anne, bring a knife!'

What he wishes he'd said was 'Anne, wear something else,' but he needn't have worried. When he reaches the pine at ten minutes to two Anne is sitting on one of the branches, wearing a simple sprig print and reading Virgil. He realises then it wasn't that turquoise dress which made her look different but how she's taken to styling her hair. Anne used to be all eyes in a way that made her otherworldly. For the first time Gilbert notices her cheekbones and her strikingly pretty nose. Her chin is as pointy as ever, but he can't look at that without being drawn to her lips, the way they fall open slightly as she reads. They curl into a smile when she sees him. She places the book inside the satchel lying in the roots of the tree, and slings it over her shoulder.

'I thought we'd do Latin next. You'll need it if you plan on studying medicine.'

'There I was thinking you'd be wanting to study Italian after your infamous brush with Art History-'

'Infamous, how?' Anne says, sharply, thinking of Mr Harrison.

The only person she told about his despicable ultimatum is Marilla and that's as good as telling the grave.

'Infamous _you_. Writing that letter to the college paper demanding exams be graded by someone else, after Dr Pavlenko threatened to fail you for calling Renaissance art the newspaper of its day.'

'It's a good comparison, most people back then couldn't read-'

'Hey,' Gilbert says, throwing up his hands, 'I never said Pavlenko was right.'

'Except when he gives you Distinction, of course.'

'High distinction, actually.'

' _High_ distinction?' Anne says.

They are at the school house now. Gilbert is about to open the gate and usher Anne through when he freezes. 'Wait a minute- you don't mean to tell me I got a better grade than you... in _Art History!'_

'Don't get used to it, Blythe,' Anne says, flinging her leg over the gate, 'you're about to lose to me in a minute!'

She leaps and lands with the grace of those pronghorns he's always likening her to, and sprints to the end of the school yard. Beyond that are two fields. The left one is the Wright's cornfield which Anne disappears into. Gilbert hadn't counted on that; the cornfields are well known habitats for spiders and snakes. Evidently those beasts hold no power over Anne. What Gilbert does have in his favour, however, is a life-long friendship with Fred, and he knows these fields just as well. There's a clear path running between the corn and the dam which Anne doesn't know about. What he has to decide is whether he can make up the time if he heads for that path, rather than cut straight through. Like most things with Anne he guesses wrong and finds her at the other end of the field attempting to look triumphant with her face between her knees.

'Why stop now, Shirley?' he says, breathing hard. 'We're not there yet.'

Anne lifts her head and grins. 'It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know the way.'

Gilbert takes a small flask from the pocket of his overalls. He offers Anne a drink, then takes her satchel from her. 'What in heck have you got in here?'

'Just a few books... and some knives... and the wooden block we keep them in...'

'Haven't you heard of travelling light?'

'Not when I don't know where I'm going,' Anne says, pointedly.

They walk the rest of the way, through a clover field and another filled with stumps, until they meet the road. Across it is the line of trees that Anne saw on the last day of the year. Beyond that is the ravine she fell into.

Gilbert flings the satchel into Anne's hands. 'Last one in has to trim Rachel Lynde's nose hair!' He whoops and disappears from view. Anne hears him next: another whoop, then a splash as he lands in a body of water, followed by something close to a curse word.

'What! Gil! Are you alright?' Anne calls.

She is used to being the one who causes others to fret for her safety and it feels like she left her stomach behind as she flies down the path toward him. It's so narrow she needs to put one foot directly in front of the other, and it takes forever as she envisions Gilbert face down in the water with a broken neck. By the time she makes it to him she is ready to hurl some curse words of her own. The first thing she sees are Gilbert's great big feet sticking out of a stream. They disappear and his head comes up, then a fountain of water shooting from his lips.

'Not funny,' Anne says. She sits on a small red boulder and wraps her arms around her knees. Gilbert's overalls and undershirt have been tossed close to the bank of the stream and are probably half wet. And they can stay there too, Anne thinks, I'm not picking them up.

'You're right, it's not,' Gilbert calls out. 'Water's like ice. If we go a little that way we'll find troll rock. Think I'll walk there rather than swim, don't want to disturb our supper.'

When he exits the water Anne wonders if she is supposed to look away and feels crosser still. The nerve of him bringing her here, then expecting her to stare at her shoes all afternoon. Well if that's what he wanted he should have brought some other girl because Anne plans on looking, and if that embarrasses him then too bad!

Gilbert did expect her to look and his choice of underwear proves it. Usually he goes swimming in nothing at all, but for modesty's sake he thought he should wear something -even Adam wore a fig leaf. That morning he had shimmied into his usual undergarments, then thought better of it. Wet cotton was about as good as tissue in the rain. In the end he decided on an old pair of turkey-red longjohns he cut off at the knee. They sag past his hips with the weight of the water and look so ridiculous on him that Anne bursts out laughing.

'Oh, so now it's funny,' he says.

He hitches them up with one hand then grabs his clothing and steps ahead of her. The whole way to troll rock Anne studies his rear end; the way the top of it threatens to spill from the waist of his underpants; the surprisingly pale skin revealed by a hole near his thigh. The rest of him is brown and gleaming. The whiteness mesmerises her. When he stops and points out the rock she almost collides with him again.

For the rest of the afternoon there is a line between them, invisible, never spoken of, but _there_ all the same. Gilbert spends most of the time on his stomach with a fishing line in his hand; Anne with her knees up and her journal pressed against it, writing about something and nothing. By four they are hungry and as the fish aren't biting Gilbert leaps from the top of troll rock into the stream below. Anne watches him, remembering that six months ago the two of them had huddled together at the bottom of what she now knows was a frozen stream.

She tries to write about this: this being something rather than nothing. In her nothing page there are brief fragments, mostly concerning the satisfying way Gilbert's back is put together. There is a mathematical perfection to it, the balance of each muscle, the subtle equilibrium of outline and axis -and other musings she picked up from her study of sculpture. But now as she watches him swim to the other side of the bank and clamber up spindly pine trees in search of the pocket knife that got lodged in a branch last December, she feels... what?

Anne looks down at her page again and scribbles the word _Alive_. So alive. So brimful of breath it turns her lungs into bellows which are stretched to their utmost and primed for release. She is a candle on a cake, she is the night before Christmas. She thinks of the world's first woman; of her waking up and finding out her name and wondering _how_ to be Eve. How to be that moment before everything begins; how to live with this hot hard breath that she isn't allowed to let go?

Then the line Gilbert left dangling into the water starts to twitch. Anne grabs it and Gilbert comes wading back, his head and shoulders cresting the cold waters. In half an hour they are eating smoky fillets of trout with their fingers.

'Why you thought you needed cooking lessons, Gil, this is so good.'

'Unfortunately my boarding house didn't come with a fully stocked stream.'

'Did you ever find your grandmother's blanket?'

'I did,' Gilbert says. He stares at Anne solemnly, as if weighing up whether to say more. 'I know this won't make sense, but what you taught me, about sewing and cooking, it's good for a man to know how to take care of himself. I wish every fellow was as lucky as I am.'

That evening Anne is invited to stay to tea with the Blythe's. Marilla had come by earlier and left word with Rowena that she and the Rossis expected to make Kensington by nightfall and would be back on Monday night. Anne wants to say yes to the invitation. The thought of going home to an empty house doesn't seem half as enticing as it did yesterday. The Blythe's place feels as much home to her as Green Gables, and while she feels unsure around Mrs Blythe now that she knows her secret, she has also missed her -and Gilbert. Even when he rolls his eyes and calls Anne a dullard for declining his mother's offer to stay the night.

'Try explaining to Dolly that the reason I was late with the milking was because I didn't want to be boring-'

'So we'll get you up before dawn.'

Anne shakes her head. 'No Gil, it wouldn't feel right. Marilla expects me to stay at Green Gables and that means being there. But thank you all the same, Mrs Blythe.'

'No matter,' Rowena says, and asks her son to fetch his father from the stable. The walk to the gate is a silent one. Rowena links her arm with Anne's. When they reach the road she doesn't let go. One hand grips her tightly while the other takes a leaf from Anne's hair. 'I wondered how long that 'girl about town' look would last,' she says, smiling. 'You can take the girl out of Avonlea-'

'You know I enjoyed my time in Charlottetown far more than I thought,' Anne admits. Then because she is anxious to hide what she knows she jumps into her account of Mr Keats and the Admiral's grandson and her search for Davy Rossi. John Blythe comes out to the front porch twice looking for his tea before Anne finishes. When Anne can't think of another word to say she almost feels bereft because now there are no more words to hide behind. Knowing this and not knowing how to lie she says abruptly, 'Well goodnight, Mrs Blythe, I'm sorry I spoiled your tea-'

'It's alright, Anne. I know,' she says. 'That is, I know _you_ know.'

Anne's eyes go wide, she feels a shiver go through her, but her mouth stays firmly closed.

'Aren't you going to say something?' Rowena asks.

Anne shakes her head.

'Are you angry with me, Anne?'

'No! If anything I'm the opposite, whatever the opposite of angry is- well not that exactly- it's just... I don't want to say anything because I swore to myself I would never let myself even _think_ about what I know, let alone say the words out loud. If people should discover your secret because of me-'

Anne stops short as Rowena wraps her arms around her.

'You never stop amazing me,' she says at last. 'How can a girl so slight hold a heart so big?'

'It's quite the mystery,' Anne says, then laughs. 'Perhaps I should write to Dr Lavendar.'

 **...**

 _* 'the subtle equilibrium of outline and axis' was ripped off from a Wikipedia page on the Kritios Boy 480 BC. If you can't get enough of male beauty then look up some images of him because he epitomises it._

Sorry you had a longer wait than usual for this update. Coming up next... the longed for reunion of Fred and Diana!


	25. But come

June 24th is a day Anne has been looking forward to since that morning in May when she let her class out early and scampered home with her shawl around her thighs. Mrs Blythe always promised they would celebrate Menarche properly and decided Summer Solstice was the perfect day to do it. Anne, who has a poetic soul, isn't so sure. On the one hand the Soltice is undoubtably special. She and Diana once talked about having a Midsummer picnic in the Sunrise Garden, and now a year later it would finally happen. On the other hand it would be deliciously poignant if she deferred the celebration until next week when she expected the return of what Diana likes to call Aunt Scarlet.

Anne takes the carnelian ring out of the box Matthew made and rubs the stone over her lips. She longs to wear it again. Though Mrs Blythe said it harboured no magic Anne is certain it does. She feels it bristle and spark down her finger whenever she puts it on. How wonderful would it be to feel like that all the time?

Reluctantly she places it back in her cedarwood box and closes the lid just as Diana enters her room. Though the day is a warm one she is wearing her red velvet gown just like Anne asked her to; the one with the empire line that Minnie-May said made her look as though she was expecting. She doesn't look that way now. The girls have been home for ten days and it looks like she hasn't eaten anything in all that time. The sudden weight loss doesn't suit her. Diana looks hungry; her eyes especially, like hollowed out whorls of want that makes Anne want to hug her to death.

'Di! You look-'

'Ugly? Oh I know it, but what does that matter? I've doomed myself to the life of a spinsterish schoolmarm forever and ever and ever.'

She flops onto Anne's bed as though she was a sack of sand. Anne kneels by her head and strokes her hair. Diana wears it loose and long in the style of a mediaeval maid. It spills over the cream-coloured counterpane like a jar of upturned molasses.

'I take it your parents know you passed the Entrance?'

'You'd think I turned Catholic the way Mamma is carrying on. She's locked herself in her room and vows she won't speak to me-'

'She must be a little bit pleased?'

'Pleased?' Diana says, she rolls onto her stomach and frowns. 'Mamma says she's never been more ashamed of me in her life -and that's including the time I got drunk _and_ when she caught me under the covers with Fred. Says I made a liar out of her because everyone in Avonlea thinks she knew all along that I was wanting to go to Queens, and now she has to pretend she knew or live with the shame of having such a deceitful daughter.'

'Oh Diana-'

'And that's not even the worst bit-' Diana pulls herself up and pulls out a folded bit of pink paper she had tucked between her breasts. She passes it to Anne and tells her to read it. Anne perches by Diana and unfolds it slowly. Inside is a message from Fred.

 _Ma chere Déesse,_ Anne reads aloud _  
_

 _I wish you had told me about Queens but I know why you didn't. Now you'll be fretting on how to tell me when you should be feeling proud. I don't want you to worry about that. I want you to be happy. So let me do what needs to be done. That vow we made to always be true, I want to break it. I don't want you tied to some fool promise when you're wanting to make a new life for yourself. It hurts like nothing else to write this to you but I'd rather that than act the coward. I'll always love you Diana Suzannah. If one day you stop loving me I shall never forget those sweet, sweet days when I had your heart._

 _A toi, pour toujours, ton Frederic  
_

Anne does not quite get Fred's name out because she is blubbing so pathetically an outside observer might assume the letter was meant for her. She tries to refold it, gives up, flings it on the bed, and takes Diana in her arms. Diana doesn't cry the way Anne does. A single tear falls down her cheek. Then she pulls away and picks up the letter, reading it for what must be the hundredth time before folding it up again.

'Josie said this would happen-'

'Josie!' Anne says sharply, 'what's she got to do with it?'

'She was all set to take her second year at Queens but her mother talked her out of it. Said Josie proved all she needed to prove, and if she went any further she'd send suitors running. Men don't like for a woman to have a better education than they do-'

'Diana, that's nonsense-'

'Is it?' she replies angrily, 'then explain _that!'_

The square of pink paper is flung against the gable window as though it was on fire. Anne leaps from the bed and picks it up.

'I'm amazed you did pass the exam if that's your logic, Diana Barry. You know very well that's not what Fred meant, and if you think it is then... then... you don't deserve him!'

Diana leaps from the bed all ready to give vent to the arguments crowding her head; how she could have her pick of suitors; how Anne pushed her into something she never wanted; how Fred had turned her greatest victory into vilest heartbreak... She grabs hold of Anne's forearms and yanks them back and forth, desperate to find some way to express her rage. Anne keeps her eyes locked on her friend and does not let go, not even when it hurts, until a sob works its way out of Diana's throat and she pulls them both to the floor.

'Oh Anne, Anne-' she wails, hoarsely, 'how could he give me up so easily?'

'It's not as if he wanted to, Di, you could hear his anguish in every word-'

'Then _why_ couldn't he have talked to me?'

'I don't know,' Anne says, shaking her head. 'Boys are strange.'

This last comment makes Diana give a wet half-snort that almost sounds like laughter.

'Stupid boys, we don't need them do we, Anne?'

Anne smiles and cups Diana's chin. 'Are you sure you want to come to the Sunrise Garden this afternoon? I'll understand if you don't, I'll tell Mrs Blythe we want to do it another day.'

'Anne there's only one Summer Solstice.'

When the sensible side of Diana reasserts itself Anne knows she is beginning to recover. She helps Diana up, smooths down her long black hair and kisses her softly.

'You're right. We shall go, we must,' she says, and tugs Diana out the door. 'For you and I, Diana, we are daughters of the moon!'

Anyone who saw them skipping hand in hand might have thought the same, or at least that the Barry girl and the Shirley girl were up to their old nonsense again. Two girls in scarlet with wreaths to match, their long hair flying out behind them. Down the drive and up the lane they run. Anne steers Diana clear of the Birch Path because every felled tree and cleared bush through there is an act of Fred's devotion, and Diana does not need to be reminded of that. When they arrive at the Blythe's the front door is wide open. They trip up the porch steps and run up the hall and only the hatstand can stop them. Mrs Blythe pokes her head round the kitchen doorway and watches them giggle. The spirit of girls is different to boys and that familiar pain cuts at her heart as she thinks of her daughter. Lottie would be almost thirteen now, the same age Gilbert was when he came back from Alberta with his father. He had crept through the gate, her boy so tall, as though he was stalking a deer, and instead of freezing Rowena found she could finally let herself hold him again.

Anne goes up to Mrs Blythe and gives her a kiss. 'Hello Mrs Blythe, I hope you don't mind us coming in-'

'The door was open-' Diana adds, shyly.

'Because I opened it. We're not here to take tea girls, we have a festival to prepare for!'

The girls follow Rowena into the kitchen. They are immediately given aprons and are soon hulling strawberries, whipping cream, decanting elderflower cordial, and easing tiny tart cases from hot greased trays. Then like a rain cloud on a wedding day Mrs Lynde appears at the back door. Anne and Diana share sidelong glances wondering if she has come with Good Book in hand in order to launch into a lecture about the sinfulness of paganism. They almost expect it when her muscular fingers pluck the wreaths from both their heads.

'What on earth are these, Ro Blythe, you don't mean to tell me you were going to let the girls wear such weedy crowns?'

'Now Rachel, Anne and Diana made those and seem rather pleased with them too.'

As she says this Rowena scoots behind Rachel's back and sends Anne a wink. Rachel drops an enormous basket at her feet and settles herself at the table.

'Anne Shirley, I expected more from a smart girl like yourself. I suppose I must extend the compliment to you too, Diana. Off to Queens like our Anne, I hear. Didn't manage to top the Entrance though. I must say your mother kept that under her hat, I suppose she wanted to keep it quiet knowing how likely you were to fail. A very proud woman is Ebba. No, I don't say that in judgment, she has reasons to be proud -though what she means to do with that sister of yours. Shift her off to Charlottetown too, no doubt. Clearly Avonlea's not good enough for _some_ people. Not that it does them any good. I mean look at you, Diana Barry, lost all your dimples and curves! It doesn't suit you and that's a fact. But what have I always said, Anne? If you insist on studying as hard as a man don't blame me when you turn into one! Well, my dears, don't think you are fated to live out your days like Marilla Cuthbert. Here, have these-' Rachel brings out two exquisitely made wreaths from her basket and lays one of each of the girl's heads. 'This is what you _should_ be wearing for Midsummer. There's seven different flowers in there, plus clover, of course -didn't I have a time finding that? I'm forever telling Thomas to pull it from the lawn. But he managed to miss one corner and lucky for you he did. Can't have a Midsummer wreath without clover! Won't work otherwise. You know if you sleep on these tonight you'll dream of the man you'll marry. My grandmother told me that when I was a girl and she was a stout-hearted Calvinist! Now tell me what you're doing in all that red? Midsummer maids wears white, Ro, you know that!'

'Again Rachel, it was the girls' idea-'

'Well you'll match the lingonberry jam I suppose. Here,' she says, placing two shining jars onto the table, 'for your tarts. I should be thankful it was bilberry not lingonberry that jackanapes stole from my garden. You can't have Midsummer without lingonberries.'

That jackanapes enters the room now. He doffs his cap at Mrs Lynde as though butter wouldn't melt and mutters in his mother's ear.

' _How_ long?' Rowena hisses. She pulls Gilbert into the parlour where they won't be overheard. A minute later she reappears tugging her apron from her waist. 'I'm sorry girls, I have to go-'

'I expect this'll be about the Buote woman,' says Rachel. 'Labouring nigh on three days, I hear. My Kester put me through the same, oh, I had a terrible time.'

Rowena stops packing her bag and looks at Rachel. 'You've had first hand experience of this?'

'Not likely to forget it, am I?'

'Rachel, would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to accompany me?'

That's all it takes. In two minutes the women are gone. Anne and Diana sit at the table and look at each other mutely.

'I'll drive you home if you like,' Gilbert says, 'Ma went in Mrs Lynde's buggy. They haven't gone far, the Buotes have been helping with planting. They have a caravan set up at Yellow Birches, but Ma could be hours yet.'

Diana sighs, glumly.

'That's kind of you, Gil, but I really don't want to go home right now. Papa said I should make myself scarce for the rest of the day because Mamma's on the war path. It's just my luck, I guess,' she takes the wreath from her hair and tosses it onto a chair. 'Punishment for being a disobedient, conniving minx.'

'That's your mother talking,' Anne says, removing her own wreath. She goes into the kitchen and fills the kettle with fresh water, then comes back and wraps her arms around her friend. 'You are none of those things, darling. One day Mrs Barry is going to realise-'

'And eat her share of humble pie,' Gilbert cuts in. He reaches across Diana and helps himself the tart she's just made. 'That's very good. Shame they're going to waste, I know a miserable fellow who would gobble them up in a minute-'

'Who?' says Diana.

'He means himself,' Anne says quickly. 'You know Gil, Diana. He has such a big head he talks about himself in the third person.'

'Anne, I wasn't talking about m-'

Anne releases Diana and claps her hand over Gilbert's mouth. 'Gilbert, when you were in the parlour before did you happen to see my hat? I was sure I left it there...' she says.

Once again Gilbert finds himself being pushed out of the room. Before Anne can close the door he is shaking his head and saying no.

'I know what you're thinking, Anne, and I won't be a part of it. I've just left the Wrights, and trust me, Fred does not want to come on some Midsummer picnic.'

'Is he taking it very hard?'

'Never seen him so low. Between you and me I'm getting worried.'

'That's why we have to bring them together-'

'I don't agree. Why make them suffer more than they have to? It's better he doesn't see her-'

'So he can spend the next two years wishing that he had?'

'Wishing's better than regretting.'

'You've never been in love or you could never say that!'

Gilbert shrugs and looks out the window. 'Fine, I've never been in love. Doesn't mean I'm wrong though.'

'Well,' Anne says coolly, 'Diana and I are going to the Sunrise Garden-'

This gets Gilbert's attention, he stops studying the curtains and looks at Anne with narrowed eyes. 'You're going where?'

'Curious, are you? If you want directions you'll have to ask Fred-'

' _Fred_ knows about it?'

'I bet you don't like that,' Anne goads. 'But there's a way for you to satisfy your curiosity and that's to ask Fred to take you there. And if you don't Gilbert, if you don't then...'

'Then what?'

'Then I'll know the reason you've never been in love is because... _you don't have a heart_.'

Anne turns dramatically and attempts to make a skirt swishing exit. But Gilbert is no amateur in the ways of Anne Shirley. He knew she would be looking to leave and places himself in front of the parlour door. He stands there unmoving, except for his eyes which flash angrily as he glares at her.

'You don't get to say something like that and just walk out of here. I have a heart, which is why I aim to protect my chum whether you like it or not!'

Even Fred would have cowered by now. Anne stands her ground. Part of her hopes he will step out of her way. Another part yearns to be closer still.

'What about what _they_ want?' she whispers hotly. 'What do you think Fred will say when he discovers you prevented him seeing Diana without asking him first? Why do boys do that? Fred did it, too. Ended things between him and Di without giving her a chance to speak. You call it protection,' Anne declares, her voice getting louder by the second, 'but really you're afraid.'

Gilbert goes white and winces. Any other word he would have laughed off, but no boy wants to be thought a coward. To hear Anne say it makes him so furious it takes several breaths before he can be certain he's mastered his anger. The final breath is so deep his shirt brushes against the buttons on Anne's dress. She doesn't flinch or back away, she looks up at him and glares magnificently. Gilbert can't remember wanting to kiss Anne more than he does right now, which doesn't make sense when it almost feels like he hates her. No, it's not hate, it's the terrifying sensation that comes when you realise someone else has power over you. When did that happen, and how, when he'd been so careful to guard his feelings and the heart she doubts he possesses?

He reaches for the brass door handle that's digging into his back, and is about to turn it when it turns by itself. He feels himself being pushed into Anne and shifts them both out of the way as Diana comes bowling in. She stands in the doorway, nostrils flaring.

'There I was giving you some privacy when it turns out you're quarrelling! I can't stand it, I can't, _I can't!_ I won't have you two ruin your courtship the way Fred and I did.'

Anne and Gilbert look as stunned as they feel. They had been staring at each other but now their focus is wholly on Diana as they announce together, 'We are _not_ courting!'

Diana rolls her eyes and and exhales impatiently. 'I've packed our picnic, Anne, I'll be waiting on the porch,' she says, then makes the skirt swishing exit Anne failed at.

The two people left in the parlour dare to look at each other again, both wearing guilty grimaces which turn into nervous laughs.

'Where'd she get that idea?' Anne says, smoothing down her apron.

'I suppose it is fairly unheard of,' Gilbert says. 'Us being friends. It's bound to cause assumptions. I never could be friends with a girl without someone marrying us off, but... I want to be.'

Anne stops fussing with her cuff and looks at Gilbert intently. He can feel a prickle go up his spine the longer she keeps her eyes on him.

'I take it back, Gilbert,' she says, soberly, 'you really are the bravest person I know.'

'Forget it-' Gilbert mutters, crossing his arms. 'You were right about Fred. I don't think he'd forgive me if he found out I stopped him seeing Diana. I know _I_ wouldn't. So- how about I go to Yellow Birches and ask him if he'd like to go for a ramble, maybe get him talking about this Sunrise Garden everyone but me knows about? If he's up to it we'll be there, but if he's not, well... best not tell Diana what our plans are until you see us.'

Anne agrees, though the moment she does her heart makes one of those queer little aches. She tells herself it's because now that Gilbert's admitted he was wrong she is half sure he is right. Diana doesn't know Gilbert is hoping to bring Fred to the garden. Once she does, what then? What if she cries or hits him or snubs him or turns on Anne for daring to trick her into this unwanted reunion? But those 'what ifs' don't come close to the truth of that quick, piercing pain. Anne knows in her heart Diana Barry is in love with Fred Wright. However close the girls are, however much they adore each other, there is a part of Diana which now belongs to that short, dimple cheeked, square-fisted boy. And the longer they love each other the bigger that part becomes.

As they walk up the hill together and enter the Sunrise Garden Anne feels like she is saying goodbye. It isn't a deliciously dramatic sensation she used to feel when she would picture some prince riding in and stealing her beloved away. Nor is it the pathetic tragedy she imagined if Diana should take some romantic illness and vow her love to Anne before dying in her arms. It's much more real than that, and therefore impossible to put into words.

They light a fire, set out the food and lay upon the blanket. Anne looks at her beautiful friend with her long, dark hair, and velvet dress which is much too heavy for a day like this. She longs to say, I love you Diana, truly, with all of my heart, but the words keep sticking in her throat.

'I'm sorry this day didn't turn out the way we hoped it would,' Anne says at last.

'I'm not. We always talked about coming here and doing this -oh, Anne! We never brought our wreaths with us!'

Anne sits up and looks about her. Everything they need is here! There are in the east are the tumble of overgrown roses, to the west the blackberry hedge. A brilliant green maple lies to the north, the apple tree in the south, and the delicate willow in the centre of the garden. Surrounding them like bright constellations, the bursting heads of poppies and blue sparks of cornflowers swaying in the long grass. 'So we'll make some more,' she declares. She runs to each corner and drops flowers, branches and leaves into the well of her skirt. When she comes back she finds Diana has a pile of fresh picked clover on her lap.

'We have to have clover,' Diana says, cheekily, 'I'm told it won't work otherwise!'

The girls move away from the fire which burns hot and high as if trying to get back to the sun. They shift the picnic to the shade of the willow and begin their weaving. Anne is so caught up in her task she forgets why they came in the first place. Which is why she looks so shocked when Diana's once flushed face turns pale and anxious.

 _'Anne,'_ she hisses, 'whatever you do, promise you won't leave me-'

Anne turns abruptly and spies Fred through the leaves, in a white open-necked shirt and dark blue trousers, entering the gates of the garden. His eyes go straight to the willow. Anne isn't sure if he can see them, the grass is so long the drooping branches touch against it, enveloping the girls in a cool, green dome. Fred doesn't move, nor seem to notice the fire. His wide brown eyes never leave the tree.

Diana clutches Anne's hand and gets up on her knees. 'It's as if he knows I'm here, Anne, oh what am I going to do?'

Anne kneels beside her pats Diana's shoulder. 'Tell him, of course,' she whispers.

Diana bounces up and down in a moment of indecision, then rises to her feet. 'Oh Anne, I'm so scared, I haven't seen him in so long-'

'You want to see him, don't you?' Anne asks.

Though she needn't have. Diana is already parting the green curtain of willow. She hasn't taken more than two steps when the drowsy summer air is filled with the word, _Déesse!_ and Fred runs at her, leaping over the fire and into Diana's arms. He pulls her close and they fall into the grass as she covers his face in desperate kisses. Anne did not expect that and watches half embarrassed, half enthralled, as Diana's hands roam through Fred's sandy hair.

He presses his thick lips all over her neck, muttering frantically. 'Diana- Diana- I missed you so much- Oh Diana- I thought I would die-'

Certain the promise she made is no longer required Anne tiptoes away from the tree, skirting the wall that surrounds the garden and wishing she could disappear. Gilbert is standing by the gate giving the moss that grows over it his full attention. When Anne approaches all he can do is nod.

'Shall we go- I think perhaps we should go,' she mumbles.

Gilbert's eyes flick over to their chums. 'Looks like they mean to roll every blade of grass flat.'

Anne reaches for the loop of Gilbert's overalls where he once carried a hammer. She means to tug it and urge him away. Sensing her movement, his hand meets hers; he covers it with his own and clasps it tight.

'Want to get out of here?' Anne nods, pinkly. 'Want to go to the stream in the woods?'

'Sure,' she says, and nods again.

'It's a bit of a hike,' he adds.

Gilbert looks at her and is surprised to find Anne looking up at him. He feels his hand being squeezed and she smiles.

'Come on, Blythe,' she says to him, 'I'll race you.'

 **...**

 _* the french in Fred's letters translates as, My dear Goddess, and ends with, Forever yours. Thank you to Kim Blythe for proof reading it for me. Tu es une personne merveilleuse!_

Ok, the end of the monster chapters for a while, the next one at least will be short and oh so sweet...

As ever thanks for reading, k.


	26. For all the vales await thee

If there is a memory that sticks from that day at the stream, one they replay in their minds, it isn't the shamelessly frantic _during_ but the dazzling _after_ they think about most. Because that's when everything changed. Touches became charged. Hands forgot how to unbind. Skin adhered to skin. That night when they said their goodbyes they lingered together for hours. In fact Anne ran indoors, grabbed her plate of dinner-gone-cold and brought it back to the gate so the two of them could share it. Not that they were especially hungry, only amazed that the mouth they'd seen a thousand times talking or biting or chewing was the same lovely mouth that could do... _that_.

All they could think of was doing it again. Not here. Not in the world. The woods was their place now. One only had to say the word, and during that summer they say it often.

For some knowing that is enough. And those same readers can close this page, and their eyes, and remember their own day when everything changed. For the rest it happens like this...

It's hot, and Anne is wearing her red merino dress with the narrow sleeves and the square neck and little covered buttons which serve no purpose at all. As she wilts in the sun she can't even loosen one and constantly pulls at her collar so the air might cool her skin. Gilbert doesn't have that problem. By the time they hike to the stream he's unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened the bib of his overalls. There isn't much he can do to help Anne feel cooler, though he gallantly carries her slippers, conscious of the balled up stockings tucked into each toe. They are her Sunday best ones, made of silk, hole free, and rinsed in lavender water.

This is what he can smell, not pine or the weeds, but those tiny purple flowers, the ones she said looked like wood betony. He laughs then because as they reach the banks of the stream he sees it growing in clumps by a rotting beech stump. He almost points it out to her but Anne is wearing that crumpled look which says, Don't talk to me. She stomps past him, hitches up her skirts and dunks her small white feet in the stream. Then she lies on the cool mossy bank and flops her arms over her eyes.

Gilbert is struck by how similar Anne looks to that day he was thinking about, when he found her lying in the grass at the burnt out Boulter place. Those same dark patches of sweat bloom under each arm, and not only there. In the hollow where her ribs stop a triangular patch rises and falls with each breath. Another thought occurs to him then: if she is sweating there she mustn't be wearing those fussy undergarments girls cage themselves in. He doesn't find this arousing so much as amusing; Anne really doesn't care about the rules. Knowing this the flicker of worry he had about what to wear in the water extinguishes itself. She doesn't care and he doesn't care, and he kicks down his trouser legs and peels off his shirt. The underpants remain, however, and he leaps into the water and sends a spray of cold water all over the girl on the bank.

After that he dives down quick and touches the slippery rocks at the bottom. When he comes up it's to hear Anne say, 'Again! Do that again!'

He was planning on doing it anyway and sends more water all over her. After her initial shock Anne gets on her knees to retaliate. The effect is no match for the onslaught and it doesn't take long for Gilbert to say, 'Pitiful, Shirley. Don't dally about on the grass. Get in!'

Rather than wait for her answer he dives to the bottom again and makes himself touch one hundred rocks before he comes up for air. He does this for several reasons, the chief being he doesn't want to see her face if she rejects his proposal. Another being she may well throw something heavier than water at him for suggesting such a thing. And the last, because if for some glorious reason she doesn't take refuge in the prim retorts of girls who enjoy being shocked and actually gets in the water, he wants to give her the privacy to do so.

For her part, Anne considers all those options but only the last one entices her. She has never been for a swim in this stream, or any stream, nor pond, nor sea -which is why she was more disappointed than Jane when her seabathing holiday was sacrificed to Aunt Scarlet. Besides, Anne's dress is soaking, it would be wise to dry it in the sun. Her only options are to sit on the bank in her undergarments or conceal herself in the water.

Gilbert's curly head resurfaces as Anne is removing her dress. It's made in two parts, a shirtwaist and a skirt, which she is getting out of when she notices him looking at her. The moment their eyes meet he dives down again, but this one is poorly executed and the water goes straight up his nose. He wades blindly to the side of the bank and coughs for a moment. It's then Anne slips in, wearing her chemise and bloomers, and making shivery sounds as the water licks up past her ribs.

'It's c-cold,' she exclaims, her elbows at right angles, her lips in a pouting O.

'There's a cure for that,' Gilbert says, and showers her with water again.

At first Anne's arms close over her face, then she realises Gilbert is not going to go easy and starts splashing back. When they finally stop she ducks her shoulders under the water and sighs gratefully.

'Gilbert, this is delightful.'

'You want to go deeper?' he says. 'There's a drop about ten yards up stream, where the troll is. When you're feeling braver you can dive off if you like.'

They spend the next hour doing just that. By the end the seats of both their underpants are red with mud and stained with grass from lifting themselves onto the bank. The cotton clings to their bodies. This looks less remarkable on Gilbert who is white from waist to knee. As for anything Anne might see, he jogs in a half crouch, his hands near his knees till he gets to the rock. This he climbs, knowing the rock face hides him. When he gets to the top he keeps his back half turned, but by leap number ten he forgets or doesn't care and more than once Anne catches sight a dark blur between his legs.

Anne is harder to hide, if only because she is so pale the slightest colour stands out like strawberries in icecream. But again after jump number ten or twelve she stops caring whether Gilbert can see her breasts and keeps both hands cupped firmly between her thighs. The sight of Anne Shirley in her clinging underclothes should be reason enough for Gilbert to call a halt on what they are doing. This is supposed to be wrong, he is supposed to feel horribly uncomfortable. The thing is he doesn't. The first time he made out the pink of her nipples he did feel slightly lightheaded. The second time he thought how lovely she was, how perfectly made and pretty. By the third time he is already thinking, it's just Anne, his friend. He isn't about to touch her or make her do something she doesn't want to do, they're just messing around the way he always messes around with his chums.

He isn't lying to himself, he truly believes it. Which is why an hour later when Anne asks if she can kiss him he consents as though she was his cousin.

The same nonchalance isn't felt by Anne.

Gilbert had been drying himself in the sun. He soon overheated and went to find Anne, who'd discovered a mossy dell between two old oaks. After spending the last ten minutes on a rock the moss feels as soft as a feather bed. This, along with the fact he'd been up since four means he gives into the drowsy feeling radiating through his limbs and starts to snooze. Or tries to. In truth the moment he closes his eyes images of the wet girl drying herself beside him keep dancing about in his head .

He begins breathing deeply, affording Anne the chance to watch his big bronzed chest fill with air, and listen to it come out in a low hot huff from his nose. She notices he has those annoyingly long lashes boys are often blessed with. They curl up against the tops of his cheeks, which are pushed up by a half smile that make his lips seem even fuller. They are the same colour as his nipples, a sort of rosy brown. She is itching to draw a circle around one. When she does that to herself they harden to a point, and it feels like a tiny miracle that something so small could bring so much pleasure. Now Aunt Scarlet is mere days away her breasts are especially heavy. When she cups them with her hands they are full and round as apples. They hurt too, but anything bursting surely hurts a little. She feels ripe and ready and knowing this makes her love her body all the more.

She sits in the dappled light and leans on one arm and enjoys the way her skin feels, cool and so soft after all that time in the water. Her dark red hair snakes down her back and every so often she feels a drip fall down her neck or into her ear. Everything is perfectly still and peaceful, only the chorus of cicadas reminds her they are in Avonlea not Eden. She doesn't know how long she's been watching the boy beside her. But it must have been a while because when she speaks her voice sounds strange, as though she is using it for the first time.

'Gilbert?'

'Hmmm?' he says, half in sleep.

'Can I kiss you?'

'Sure- wait, what?'

He opens one eye and squints at her, then he pulls himself up and leans on his forearm. 'Sorry Anne, _what_ did you say?'

'I would like to be kissed at least once in my life-'

'Anne you're seventeen. You'll have plenty of opportunities.'

'What about you? If you're never getting married you may never kiss a girl again. Don't you miss it?'

'I'm not answering that,' he says evenly. He rolls onto his back again and cradles his head. 'This is because of Fred and Diana, isn't it? You know they're gonna marry one day, don't you? It's not that simple for me. Even if I gave up the idea of going to Redmond and stayed in Avonlea there's still no guarantee I could offer- anyone a home. We are mortgaged up to our necks, Anne, one bad harvest and it's over.' He covers his face with his hands and rubs his eyes, roughly. 'I don't even know why I'm telling you this, we talked about it before-'

'Gilbert, I didn't ask you for a promise, I asked for a kiss. I know very well you've kissed plenty of girls so I don't know why you can't kiss me.'

There's nothing he can say to that, nothing he can win. He knows when Anne sinks her teeth into something she is never letting go.

'Fine!' he says, 'fine. You want to be kissed? Far be it from me to disoblige.' After some huffing and shifting of limbs Gilbert is on his knees. He looks so serious and his hair so ridiculous. Half of it sticks to his scalp, the other half curling wildly. What he's wearing doesn't help, some damp white underpants in a blue anchor print that his mother made two years ago. 'Come here then,' he says crossly.

Anne erupts into peals of laughter. 'Oh Gil- oh I'm sorry,' she pleads, 'it's just I never imagined-'

He doesn't wait for her to finish, he leans in close and tilts his head to one side. His lips part slowly, his eyes begin to close... only to fly open when Anne starts laughing again. She throws her hands over her mouth and mumbles through her fingers.

'Can we try again?' I promise I won't laugh this time.'

Gilbert shakes his head, then he reaches for Anne's jaw and cups it lightly. Anne snorts.

'Confound it, Anne!'

'Please, I'm really sorry- I've never done this before.'

'Clearly.' He slumps back and frowns.

'I think,' Anne says, 'if you lie down like you were before, that might help. Just lay back and close your eyes and I'll kiss you, how about that?'

Gilbert mutters something under his breath and reclines once more.

'Close your eyes, Gil-'

'They are closed.'

He feels her hair first, thick wet tendrils that slither over his chest. She flicks it over her shoulder and he feels her breath hit his neck. He swallows hard, his lips tingling madly as he waits for her to touch him. And she does, just not where he is expecting her to. She kisses his collarbone first and it feels as light as a butterfly's wing. The skin on his chest goes to gooseflesh immediately; his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he waits to feel her lips on his. They don't come. The next kiss falls on his breast, the next on his ribs, the same feather-soft touch that makes him grab at the moss beneath him and claw it with his fingers.

'Anne,' he croaks, 'what are you doing?'

'Kissing you,' she says, earnestly.

She bends down once more and kisses his stomach, his hip, his other hip. She is especially fond of this part of his body, the way they dip inward and form two angles that cut into his rippling abdomen. It rises and falls then freezes when her mouth brushes over the fine line of hair that starts below his navel. Anne stops for a moment and looks up at him. His eyes are still closed, his head pushed to one side as though half in agony, half in ecstasy.

'You look so beautiful,' she murmurs, then moves her mouth to his wrist and the soft skin of his inner elbow; the knotted muscles in his arm, his shoulder, his sternum, his nipple. This she nuzzles momentarily before reaching across to his other arm, his bicep, the soft crease at his armpit where a few dark hairs poke out. He flinches when she touches him there and she lifts her face to look at him again. His eyes are still shut. His mouth half open, almost panting with the pleasure she is giving him.

Anne decides she is ready to kiss him properly now. She shuffles forward a little more and leans over his face. A small beam of sunlight falls between the leaves of the tree overhead and makes the whiskers on his upper lip and chin look golden. Anne smiles, comes closer still, and watches him for a moment. A moment that seems longer to Gilbert than it does to her. Not knowing how close she is he jerks his head up to meet her lips. The cicadas laugh as they crack their heads together. Blinded by a white pain Anne reels back and lands on Gilbert heavily. He groans the way he did when he dislocated his shoulder and rolls into a ball.

'What, what is it Gilbert, what did I _do?_ '

Gilbert slowly uncoils. For the first time he notices where she is touching him and his eyes go wide. 'Let go,' he murmurs, shakily.

Anne lifts her hand. It's then she notices there is something distorting his blue anchor underpants. 'Did I- break something?'

'No- no,' he says rolling further away from her. 'I'm fine. You missed me really, I was anticipating a blow higher up but you fell on my thigh.'

'Is that your _thigh_ bone?' Anne says. She kneels up in order to have a better look. 'That can't pop out the way a shoulder can, can it?'

'Anne- stop, it's not a bone-'

'For pity's sake, Gilbert, what is it?'

Gilbert goes redder than an October sunset. He looks up at the tree tops and says quietly, 'It means my body's getting ready to couple with you, that's all.'

Anne falls back hard on her heels. 'You want to _couple_ with me?'

'No, my body does.'

'What's the difference exactly?'

The cicadas start laughing again.

'I can't believe I'm about to tell you this,' he mumbles. His face goes redder with every word and he exhales with exquisite embarrassment. 'Pa told me a while back that if I find myself in situations like this I'll know it's right when my head says it's right and my heart says it's right-'

'What about your body?'

'Anne, my body _always_ says it's right. The thing is all three have to agree, head, heart and... that,' he says, pointing to his underpants. 'And not just mine, the woman I'm with has to feel the same way, so that when we lie together we align completely, point for point, the way a triangle does. Well not a triangle exactly. More a... splendid geometry- ah, I'm not explaining this very well-'

'No, I think I understand. So- what is your head telling you right now?'

'That we'll get into a mess of trouble if we go any further.'

'And your heart?'

'That I never want to hurt you.'

'And this?' Anne says.

She brings her hand to his underpants and touches him through the damp cotton. A curious thing happens then because Gilbert seems to melt and go harder still.

'That says... please keep doing what you're doing.'

'Do you want me to?'

Gilbert rolls toward her slowly, his eyes are the colour of honey and for a moment Anne thinks he might cry. He stares up at her for what feels like forever then shyly nods his head.

'Honestly? Yes.'

'Will it you hurt if I stop?'

'No-' on a breath.

Anne lies down next to him and rests her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her, his thumb stroking her arm while she strokes him. It feels exciting and comforting and dangerous all at the same time. Most of all it feels right. Slowly and inevitably she slips her fingers beneath his underwear. He doesn't try to stop her, he kisses her hair and makes those sweet, soft noises she used to dream about. When she hears them her insides go hot and silky, she rubs her thighs together and moves closer still.

'Gilbert?'

'Mmmm.'

'I have a triangle.'

'Of course you do.'

'I wasn't sure if it was normal-'

'Normal? Anne, it's gorgeous. Why on earth would you think otherwise?'

Anne stops her hand for a moment and mutters something about Cranach's Eve. Gilbert doesn't find this as funny as she assumed he would and tells her a secret of his own; how he always wondered why the men depicted in works of art were all well muscled specimens of manhood in every respect but one.

'I figured it must be some artistic conceit because none of the fellows I know are anywhere near that small.'

'Now you know why I didn't understand what had happened to you. I had no idea it could get so... like that,' she says, touching him again.

'I had no idea you didn't know how perfect you are.'

'Gilbert, you just leaped in my hand when you said that.'

Gilbert rolls closer so their foreheads touch together. He places his hand upon hers. 'We should stop now.'

'What will happen if we don't?'

He looks up at the sky then laughs, briefly and unexpectedly. 'You're going to have to listen to me recite a whole lot of Euclid's Principles.'

Anne raises herself on her elbow, a wicked light in her eyes. 'Is that really what you think about?' She pauses and then, 'I think about you.'

'Oh Anne, don't tell me that-'

'I thought I could be honest with you?'

'Look at me, look what we're doing. I told you I'm not safe.'

Anne returns to her place on his shoulder. He smells like the cold stream he bathed in and feels as supple as a current. She fits against him like water and just like water she wants him to touch her everywhere.

'You're the safest person I know,' she says, softly.

She takes his hand and places it between her legs. It astonishes him how warm and soft she feels, the way her mouth twists in a little half smile when he touches her. Her big grey stare straight into him. She is so fearless and trusting and beautiful and all those fine word his Pa told him count for absolutely nothing. Anne shifts her head so her lips brush his neck. His thudding pulse goes right through her, and the husky tone of his voice, as he mutters, 'Now we _really_ have to stop.'

But they don't.

Anne wraps her leg around his knee and resumes her movements. She has this vision of what they must look like from heaven, a lovely knot of brown and white limbs. The hot, urgent sounds she released into her pillows now sound in his ear. To hear them signals the end for Gilbert, the end of any possibility that they might feasibly stop what they're doing. He can't, he knows it, it's all going one way now and there is nothing he can do. His hand upon her, her hand upon him, is all that exists in the world.

In that moment when they both stand at the edge of bliss and tumble headlong into it, he buries his head in her damp red hair while she shudders and sighs against him. After, when they manage to untangle themselves, and work out whose leg belongs to whom, and what they can use to clean up, they kneel together silently and stare at each other in awe.

It's Anne who breaks the spell. She leans forward and cups Gilbert's face and presses her lips on his.

'As far as first kisses go, Blythe,' she says, dazedly, 'that was rather wonderful.'

 **...**

 _'Why katherine, why couldn't you just have them kiss?' I hear you say. Here's a Sloaney list in answer to that question._

 _1\. Because in every other story I've written it's either kiss or go the whole way. I know and you know there is way more grey area between those two acts. I thought it was time to write about it._

 _2\. Because why should the mess of adolescence only be about girls?_

 _3\. Because Gilbert is always saying stop and it was beginning to bore me._

 _4\. Because I love messing with your expectations._

 _5\. I also love meeting them, for you to go, typical kwak, I knew she'd do something like this._

 _6\. Because it's important to me that I write things that scare me._

 _7\. I wish I could think of a number seven because I love lists. But that's it, unless you want an essay._

 _Thanks for reading, as ever I'd love to know what you think._

 _k._


	27. Pillars of the hearth

'Just the girl I was hoping to see,' says Gilbert as Anne strolls up the path to his house.

'Hello to you, too,' Anne replies.

She's wearing a pale yellow dress with a posy of pinks at her waist, her hair in a thick red braid that falls in a rope down her back. She leans her head to one side, a quizzical look on her face.

'Didn't you know I was coming? I mentioned it to your mother two days ago. I thought she might have said something.'

'Oh, she said something, alright,' Gilbert says.

He reaches for Anne's hand as she passes him on the porch. She grasps it tightly and turns into him with the grace and ease of a dance.

'Is this something I need to know before I go in?'

Gilbert sits on the top step by way of an answer. Anne follows, her hand still in his. He threads his fingers through her own, her elbow on his knee.

'This new?' he says, of the carnelian ring on her index finger.

'Not especially,' Anne says, lightly, 'your mother gave it to me-'

Gilbert huffs. 'Is there any place a fellow can go without Ro Blythe on his heels-'

'I take it you've quarrelled. What was it this time?'

He runs his fingers over the back of Anne's hand. He loves to do that. Feel each bone and sinew, and name them in his head. Four days have passed since the soltice. They've been to the woods only once since then but he thinks about it every night. It's gotten so bad he's starting to wonder if it's all a dream. When he kneads her hand with his own it's his way of assuring himself that she's real.

'About an entry in the dictionary, strangely enough,' he says. 'A certain word beginning with c-'

'Courtship,' Anne says, unhesitatingly. 'All Avonlea has decided we are courting, Gil, and nothing will convince them otherwise.'

'Which is why I resorted to the dictionary. I reasoned if Ma wouldn't take my word for it, perhaps she'd accept Webster's.'

'I can guess how that went,' Anne says. 'That's why you're out here, I take it?'

'That and... I was wondering if you would like to come to the woods later... with me?'

Anne grins. 'The woods, yes, swimming no-'

'What does that mean?'

Gilbert smiles crookedly and gives her a sidelong glance. He is trying to appear unconcerned but the truth he is half expecting Anne to tell him she's made a terrible mistake. This is what happens when you ignore what your head tries to tell you; it never shuts up, nor fails to reveal what you're thinking to anyone close enough to notice.

Anne sees it immediately. She wraps her other hand around his and brings it to her chest, her eyes soft and playful. 'It means I can't go swimming. It doesn't mean I don't want to see you.'

' _Doesn't_ mean you _don't_ want to see me,' Gilbert repeats. He looks at the sky as he says it, pretending to muddle out Anne's meaning. 'I believe that's Shirley speak for _does_ mean you _do_ want to see me-'

Anne leans in so close their noses touch. ' _All_ of you,' she whispers.

Gilbert raises his eyebrows and beams, before looking thoughtful again. 'Would it be strange if I brought Virgil with us?'

'Would be stranger if you didn't.'

'That's what I thought,' Gilbert says, comfortably. He stands up and pulls her up with him. She loves it when he does that. He has so much strength in one arm she feels he could lift her all the way to the porch roof. 'I gotta go. Pa's waiting for me. Shall I come for you at three?'

Anne enters the front door then twirls on her heel. 'Come whenever you like, Gilbert,' she says, laughing, 'it's your house!'

She disappears down the hall and Gilbert thinks to himself, But for how much longer?

Mrs Blythe is in the covered porch at the back of the house. She had been ironing, now she sits in the turquoise rocker with a cup of tea in her hand. At her feet there are kittens, tortoiseshell and tiny. Their mother is by the washing basket, sprawled upon her back, the thick white fur on her belly mussed up by nursing and nuzzling. There is a mottled kitten that Anne particularly likes the look of, a little girl cat with an unnaturally long tail and a half bent ear. Marilla gave Anne an unequivocal no -they already have a tom in the barn to keep the mice away- but that didn't stop Anne promising a kitten to Dora.

The Rossis live in a caravan they bought from a friend of the Boutes. It was in a terrible condition but Dora and her father soon put it to rights and moved it to their new plot of land on the first day of July. In another week the kittens will be old enough to be parted from their mother. Anne has asked Mrs Blythe if she could invite Dora over to choose one. She remembers Dora's face when she suggested her idea, how she broke into a smile that looked like it might split her face in half. Anne thinks of Dora's brother now. They both share the same gappy teeth. It's Davy she wants to talk with Mrs Blythe about, and something else, the kernel of an idea Anne has been growing by inches. Today she feels it's big enough to withstand Rowena Blythe's fearsome scrutiny and after their third cup of tea she is ready to bring it up.

'I'd like to talk to you about an idea I have.'

'Only one?' says Rowena. 'You strike me as the sort to have five or six spinning round in your head.'

'That's true,' Anne says, slowly. 'Though this one has been crowding out the others for a while now. At first I thought it impossible, then laughable. But after talking with Gil-'

'Gilbert knows?'

'N-nooo, not exactly. I suppose you could say he inspired it.'

'This should be interesting,' Rowena says. She puts down her cup and stares at Anne. Her eyes glint with gold, but behind the light is a coldness- no, a sadness. Anne swallows hard and twists the ring on her finger.

'Mrs Blythe, before we begin, I know you and Gilbert are quarrelling, I also know the quarrel concerns me.' Rowena picks up her cup and takes a big gulp. It's clear she isn't comfortable with this conversation and Anne realises she will have to be more forthright. 'You want Gilbert to announce that we're courting, don't you?'

Rowena's face goes plum red and she coughs up her tea. Anne can't help think of Marilla when she tried to cure her eye problems by duping her into drinking dandelion beer.

'You _know?'_ she mutters between hacks.

Anne nods. 'I do. Gilbert told me. Not that he needed to, most people in Avonlea feel the same -and don't mind telling me so.'

Rowena reaches for Anne's hand and pats it briefly. 'My son has a talent for making most girls giddy. He only has to throw them a wink and they fight over it like a dog over scraps. But you are not most girls, my dear. How can you allow him to treat you so shabbily?' She leans back in her rocker and crosses her arms. 'If a boy wants a girl for his own he should say so in a public fashion and announce his intention to court.'

'Mrs Blythe, I am not looking to be courted because I have no intention of marrying. My place is with Marilla. And unless by some miracle her eyesight gets better and we can buy back the lease on Green Gables my place will _always_ be with Marilla. Gilbert knows this. He doesn't pity me or hope to change my mind, he just wants to be my friend-'

 _'Friend?'_ Rowena utters, not because she doubts Anne but because she can't think of anything else to say.

She had assumed it was Gilbert who refused to do the gentlemanly thing. That Anne knew this was surprising, that she agreed with Gilbert was shocking. Rowena thinks back on the few times she has seen them together since Anne came back from Charlottetown. There was nothing overt in their behaviour, nothing demonstrative nor sentimental. All the same it was there. Some change had come over the pair of them, Rowena felt it even if she couldn't prove it. She assumed her son would come clean, if only because he always said there was no point trying to hide things from her. Yet whenever Anne is mentioned he clams up or leaves the room. What makes this harder to fathom is that Rowena loves Anne and Gilbert knows this. None of it makes any sense.

'Yes, Gilbert is my friend,' Anne says, offering Mrs Blythe a smile. 'Just like you are my friend. One I'd very much like to tell my idea to, that is if you'd still like to hear it?'

Rowena looks sheepish and takes another slurp of tea. 'Forgive my meddling, dear. In my line of work I tend to look for what people aren't saying, it's got to be a habit with me. But let's put that behind us.' She puts the empty cup aside and leans toward Anne. 'What would you like to talk about?'

Anne looks over her shoulder then whispers, 'It concerns Dr Lavendar.'

'I'm familiar with the chap,' Rowena nods.

Anne kicks off her slippers and brings her feet onto the day bed where she sits. A kitten appears from behind his mother and makes a beeline for Anne's toes. She scoops him up into her lap and pets him as she speaks.

'You only know that I discovered his identity by accident, but when I delivered your letter I learned so much more than that-'

'Anne, you needn't speak of Dr Lavendar as though he was an actual man. John knows I write for the Echo-'

'But not Gilbert-'

'I don't see the necessity in burdening him with my secret, but I doubt he's in danger of overhearing.'

'Yes,' Anne says, a blush rising up her neck. 'He said he'd return at three.'

Rowena draws up her feet, too, and tucks her corderoy skirts over them. Anne suddenly realises that while her character looms large Mrs Blythe is really very slight. With her head tilted just so, and her rust-red shirtwaist, she no longer looks like a cat so much as a little red robin. Her bright eyes go to the orchard and her voice is clear and wistful.

'I began writing the column when John went away,' she begins. 'He was very ill and needed wide open space and dry air to recover. Of course I had planned to come too, we were going to sell the farm and make a new life out west. But after Lottie... I suppose I was holding onto to some hope she might still be found. It was me she was with when we walked by the pond. Something caught me eye, I don't know what it was, a flower, a herb... All I remember was how quiet it was. I looked for her everywhere but my girl was gone. The idea of leaving her and going to Alberta was unendurable. There was no way for me to run the farm alone so we hired a man and I went to live with my brother. But it wasn't long before I missed my own home, and so gradually, stone by stone I fixed up the crumbling cottage in our orchard-'

'You built the stone cottage?' Anne says, amazed.

'I put it back together. It's the oldest house in Avonlea. John said his grandfather lived there when he first came to the Island. But it was too small to hold a family, and his wife wanted something close to the road, which is why they built this place.'

'And the tunnel?'

'Ah, that was Gilbert's idea. Remember that big snow in '75? No, you didn't arrive here till the spring. We had a storm very like the one we were met with last winter. I was in the cottage when it struck, and Gil and his father dug that tunnel in order to get me out.' She laughs then, a chuckle that sounds from deep in her heart. 'Oh Anne, you should have seen my kitchen, knee deep with red earth! But, we were talking of Dr Lavendar. That began as a debate in the Letters page of the Echo. Some good lady wanted to ban all medicines preserved with alcohol. So I jotted down some snappy response and signed myself Miss Lavender -I must have been inspired by all the purple flowers I'd planted. Well after some back and forth between me and the Temperance Society, I had a letter from the editor-in-chief offering me my own column. It was supposed to be monthly concern, but he soon demanded weekly instalments as well as a change in my name. Miss Lavender became Dr Lavendar and goodness, what a popular fellow he proved. It is interesting is it not, how the word of a man is so much more palatable than that of a woman?'

'Try telling that to Mrs Lynde,' Anne says. She cradles her face in her hands, the kitten long gone. 'But... they pay you a man's wage, don't they?'

'I have a fair amount put by,' Rowena says, carefully.

Anne is not about to inquire further though she is certainly confused. How can Mrs Blythe be saving money when the farm is in danger of foreclosure?

'That's good to know,' Anne says, 'because I'm considering writing a column of my own-'

Rowena claps her hands together. 'For the Echo? But that's wonderful!' she cries. 'This calls for more tea, don't say another word till then!'

When Gilbert returns his mother and Anne are still talking. They have moved to the dining room and there are pieces of paper, ink pots, pens and blotters all around them.

'Gilbert, listen to this, Anne has had a stupendous idea!'

'Nothing new there,' he says. He crosses his arms and leans against the dining room door. Anne notices he has changed his shirt and his hair is wet, and his eyelashes.

'Ah, I haven't told Gilbert yet, Mrs Blythe, I only said he inspired me.'

'Which explains why the idea is a good one,' says Gilbert. He takes a seat at the table. 'What's all this?' he asks, scanning the pages in front of him.

'Shall we tell him, Anne? I doubt we can keep it a secret. The moment he reads it he'll know that it's you.'

'Read what?' Gilbert says. 'Anne, have you submitted your story for publishing?'

Anne shakes her head and shrugs nervously. 'No, nothing like that. The paper haven't even said they like the idea yet, Mrs Blythe-'

'Oh they'll like it, alright-'

'Like _what?'_

'Mrs Blythe, you tell him-'

'Gilbert, Anne has hit upon something that I believe could be very successful. She wants to write a column for the Echo.' The look on Gilbert's face makes it clear he has no idea what his mother is talking about. Rowena makes an impatient sound then says to Anne, 'You tell him!'

'Gil, do you remember when you wanted to know about housekeeping-'

'Your short lived career as a baker?' Rowena adds.

'You said to me that it was important for a man to know how to look after himself,' Anne continues. 'I started to think about how Matthew couldn't have managed without Marilla, or Martin without Dora, and why it was there was nowhere for a man to go to learn about these things without going to his mother-'

'Don't look at me,' Rowena says throwing up her hands, 'I have a hard enough time keeping him out of the cottage, you think I want him in my kitchen too!'

'So I thought perhaps I could write an advice column, anonymously of course -for the single gentleman, advising him on everything from how to starch a collar to how to serve tea. I know I'm hardly a paragon of the feminine arts, but I believe that will work in my favour. So much of homemaking gets bogged down by tedious details done for no other reason than to impress other homemakers. But they won't be my audience, I want to write for people like you, Gilbert, or any single fellow who finds he has to take care of himself-'

'But they won't be your only readers, mark my words,' Rowena cuts in, excitedly. 'Imagine the mail the Echo will receive from disgruntled housewives touting their own recipe for fruit cake or the correct way to iron a shirt? Then there'll be letters to address those letters, and on and on it will go. Oh yes, I foresee you creating what Mr Oliver likes to call a sensation!'

'Who's Mr Oliver?' Gilbert says.

'A _friend_ ,' Rowena replies. 'Now you two, scoot, I'd like a moment to refine this for Anne. Why don't you show me what you've learned, Gil, and make the afternoon tea?'

It's when Rowena sees them in the kitchen together that it hits her, this change between her son and Anne that she hadn't been able to define before. It used to be they could never walk a field without bumping into each other. They were forever knocking heads and other parts as well, so that it seemed Gilbert couldn't see Anne without coming home with a new bruise. But now, as they sawed bread and sliced tomatoes and washed the lettuce and nasturtium flowers they appeared to almost dance. Gilbert's hand would reach for the salt just as Anne would duck for the butter. Anne would bend down to see to the stove just as Gilbert passed a tray over her head. They shared an intimate rhythm, one that showed they were not merely aware of each other, but knew each other, as Adam knew Eve.

Rowena stands in the kitchen doorway and watches them work together and the pain that has made its home in her heart pierces her again. She knew this was coming, she also knows it is going to hurt the people she loves the most.

'It's time, Ro Blythe,' she says to herself. 'Time to let him go.'

 **...**

Thank you for your gorgeous response to my last chapter, you Anne-girls are a generous lot. I only lost one follower but I gained one too, which I think is a very Anne-ish result!

Love k.


	28. Arise, the call

It began with a simple picnic, and even that looked unlikely. It was almost impossible to get the four of them together without arousing suspicion. Specifically, Ebba Barry's, who saw no reason to suppose her daughter's sudden ambition proof of good character, and monitored her movements, and those of the eldest Wright boy, with a keen, untrusting eye.

But all stars must align some time. In early August Diana's cousin Su was delivered of a ten pound baby boy and summoned Ebba to Grafton. The invitation was extended to Diana as well, but not to Minnie-May. The new mother's nerves were stretched far enough without that little minx in her house. There was no way George Barry could possibly manage a nine year old girl, so Diana was told she must remain at Orchard Slope and keep house for her father.

The moment this news was communicated to Anne it was shared with Gilbert who then told Fred. In the days leading up to Mrs Barry's going, all they could talk of was where they should go. Fred suggested the stream in the woods. He and Gilbert knew the place well, it was hidden from the road and its narrow access made it easy to spot someone approaching. Gilbert thought that a fair suggestion. He also knew Anne would not. To her the woods was Their Place, besides she could hardly go swimming with Fred. Diana thought the same, and though she had similar feelings of ownership for the Sunrise Garden, it was agreed to be the ideal location. Not only was it walled, its situation on top of a hill meant they were hidden from world below. Once that was decided all that was left to settle was the day. After church they met up near the horse-and-buggies and put a plan together.

'So long is it's not tomorrow,' said the girls, 'because that's washing day.'

'No fear of that,' said Fred. 'We're harvesting our second earlies Monday, and the Blythe's on Tuesday-'

'Wednesday it is then,' Anne said.

'It will have to be,' said Diana, 'Mamma comes home on Thursday.'

And that's how it came about that at eleven o'clock on Wednesday morning Anne calls for Diana at Orchard Slope and asks her to come berry picking.

Ebba would have questioned her daughter's decision to wear her second best dress on such an excursion. George barely notices. Anne wears a pretty dress too, she'd run it up herself using the pattern Dora leant her. It's a deep emerald green dotted with tiny white starflowers in a filmy fabric that skims over her long legs. Gilbert walks behind her, absorbed by the way the gusting wind make Anne's skirts appear to be painted on. Fred is beside him, his brown eyes fixed on the dark haired goddess in her fitted white dress.

The girls chat and sing all the way to the Boulter's back field. The boys are silent and steaming. That is until they reach the burnt out house and notice it has the beginnings of a new shingle roof.

'What's this?' says Gilbert, looking at Anne.

'Martin Rossi's new place,' says Fred. 'He bought this acre from Levi Boulter. I heard he wanted to tear the house down. Looks like he plans to save it.'

Dora only said they'd bought a small holding near Carmody Road. I never thought-' Anne says, eyeing Gilbert.

'Lucky them,' he says. 'They have the sweetest water here. I brought two empty flasks with me, I was hoping I could fill them.'

'There's smoke coming from the chimney,' says Fred, 'maybe we can ask.'

Diana shakes her head. 'No- the fewer people that see us the better.'

Fred gives her a conciliatory nod then catches Gilbert's eye, who rubs his hand over his chin.

'I was counting on getting that water. There's no source up on the hill, is there?'

'I don't remember seeing one, but that doesn't mean it's not there. The Sunrise Garden has a habit of providing a person with everything they just as they need it,' Anne says.

She clutches her hands beneath her chin and looks off into the sky. Gilbert only just stops himself saying something horribly sentimental. He crosses his arms and clears his throat.

'I say the girls go on with the food while we ask the Rossis if we can use the well.'

'Sounds g-' Fred says.

'That makes the most sense,' Anne cuts in.

She picks up the basket she and Diana have been carrying between them. Diana smiles at her gratefully and takes hold of the handle. The girls skip by and enter the spruce forest to the north of the property. The moment they step out of the sunshine a chill enters their bones and they hasten up the hill. Just before they are gone from sight Anne turns and calls out.

'Don't be too long, and don't come with half a herb garden either. I know you, Gilbert Blythe!'

Gilbert waves her away and adjusts the satchel on his shoulder. He does not look at Fred, whose eyebrows have disappeared under his white straw hat.

'Sure looks that way-' he mutters.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Fred clutches his hands under his chin. 'I _know_ you, Gilbert Blythe!' he croons, and receives a swift kick to his rump.

'You're a fine one to talk. Where'd you get that hat, looks like a cast off from Thomas Lynde!'

'Ah, you got no style, Blythe, everyone's wearing these in Charlottetown.'

The mood changes then, Gilbert senses it immediately and swings his arm around his chum. 'Has Diana said anything yet?'

''Bout going to Queens? Nope. Every time I bring it up she tells me she doesn't want to talk about it-'

'She's leaving then?'

'Looks like.'

'Cette pauvre Tourtiere,' says Gilbert, hugging his friend a little closer. 'Still, it's not forever, eh?'

Fred shrugs. 'Just feels like it.'

An hour later the girls says something similar. They had been sitting under the willow, but it proved too cool in the shade and they move the picnic by the blackberry hedge, which takes the brunt of a buffeting wind as well as providing their berries. Mr Barry might forget to ask for them but Minnie-May certainly won't.

'What are they _doing_ down there, they're taking ages,' Diana complains. Her appetite has returned with a vengeance and she licks the icing off a third plum puff.

Anne stands up, her hat almost flying from her head. 'I think I should go and find out,' she says. She yanks out her hat-pin and stabs it through the brim. Securing it to the ground with a satisfying jab as though it's the hat's fault she has more freckles than ever this summer.

'I'm coming too,' Diana announces. She slips the silk wrap from her shoulders, pulls it over the crown of her hat and ties it under her chin. Anne watches her and huffs. Only Diana could make something so sensible look so stylish. 'What was that huff for, Miss Anne, you think _I_ want freckles?'

'I don't want freckles,' Anne says, grumpily, helping her friend to her feet. ' _They_ want _me._ '

They're not the only ones, Diana thinks to herself, as they skip down the hill.

It comes as no surprise to Anne that Gilbert is on the roof of the old house. He's on his knees, also hatless, nails jutting out of his mouth. He waves at the girls briefly, before gripping hard on a roof joist as another gust of wind threatens to hurl him to the ground. Fred is in the garden picking up shingles with Dora. The high winds made short work of Martin's roofing efforts, for every tile Gilbert manages to nail back another two fly off.

'Fred,' says Dora, 'please go up and tell Gilbert to come down. There's no point continuing with the wind like this.'

'Hello Dora,' Anne says, kissing her cheek.

Dora stands there awkwardly, unsure if she should return the kiss or not. 'Sorry to ruin your picnic,' she says.

'Oh, _they_ weren't at our picnic-' Diana mumbles.

'Father is paying a visit to Marilla,' Dora continues, affecting not to hear her. 'The boys were kind enough to help me with the roof. Looks like we'll have to find the money for a carpenter after all.'

'Never mind, darling,' Anne says. 'You still have your caravan.'

It is situated near the well at the back of the house. Anne walks around to have a better look and is disappointed to find the Rossis have painted over the roses, birds and curlicues she had been expecting to see, with the sort of nasty blue that country folk paint their wheelbarrows. The inside is neat as a pin. No bright indiennes or friendly ginghams here, just unbleached calico at the windows and a grey sheepskin on the floor. At either side there are two narrow benches made up with two familiar quilts. Anne remembers Dora and Marilla piecing them together on winter evenings while Anne worried over her Art History assignments and marking.

Martin had fashioned risers on the legs of the quilting table so that Marilla didn't have to bend her head too low. With the new spectacles Dr Chowdury prescribed she manages sewing well enough. It's her headaches they all fear. Sometimes she would catch one in time and after an hour it would fade. Other times it would hold her hostage for days, bearing down on her sockets with a vice-like grip so that Marilla would fear her eyes were being crushed. On her worst days she would whimper into Anne's chest that she would rather go blind than endure the pain for another minute.

Anne is counting on her bilberries now, and hopes to harvest some today. She thinks about Gilbert; how he took such a risk to find them for her, when he enters the caravan and slips his arms around Anne's waist.

'It's cosy in here,' he says into her red hair.

'It is now,' she says, softly. 'You know, Gil, I could happily live in a place like this.'

'What happened to the girl who wanted her prince to ride in and take her to his castle in the sky?'

He pulls her closer; she can feel him smile when his lips brush past her ear. Her answer doesn't match his teasing tone, he feels her stiffen and she says, 'I guess my dreams became smaller.'

'Have you heard from the Echo yet?' he asks, releasing her.

Anne shakes her head. 'I don't know what I was thinking, I feel so foolish. I'm a seventeen year old girl with no experience at all. Why do I wish for impossible things... I should be writing to the Board to find out if I still have my job-'

'They haven't told you yet? Surely that means it's still yours. Harrison can't dismiss you for using the school house to study, maybe I should write him a letter-'

Anne grabs his arm. 'Don't!' she exclaims, then catches herself. 'Don't, Gil. I'm not looking to be rescued.'

'No,' he says, 'I can vouch for that. I think the last time I tried you said you would rather drown.'

'I might have thought it but I doubt I _said_ it,' Anne says, and laughs at herself. She's the only girl he knows who does that. 'Besides,' she adds, 'you came in mighty handy during that snow storm.'

'I once made a snow cave almost as big as this place, it had a platform to sleep on and nooks for my lamp and my books.'

'I'd like to see that one day-'

Diana and Fred peer through the caravan door.

'If you two have finished canoodling,' says Diana, 'can we go eat now?'

Dora declines to join them. She watches them go and with her new kitten in her arms, his little paw between her fingers which she waves at the four as they enter the forest.

'We should have insisted,' Anne says, 'she'll feel we have excluded her.'

'More relieved, I'd say,' says Fred. 'Didn't you hear what she said? About always playin' gooseberry.'

'What did she mean by _always_ , we weren't there for more than half an hour?'

Gilbert notices Anne's face as Diana says this. He knows exactly what Dora means. Martin Rossi is at Green Gables almost as much as he is. If Diana doesn't know, then Anne can't want anyone to know.

'Hey, Shirley,' he says, pushing his satchel into Fred's hands, 'come on, I'll race you!'

When the two of them get to the top of the hill all attempts to catch their breath are hampered by frantic kissing.

'You taste of blackberries,' he utters between gasps.

'You taste like one of Dora's perfect cups of tea.'

Later when they realise Fred and Diana are taking their time for reasons more than thoughtfulness, they stroll hand in hand through the garden and examine the rose and the bilberry bush.

'Vaccinium myrtillus,' Gilbert says. 'Should be ripe soon.' He squats down and examines the plant in his usual curious fashion. 'Are you ready to work your miracle, young bilberry?' he asks it.

He plucks two berries and offers one to Anne. It's smaller than a blueberry and blacker. Anne finds out why when she takes a tiny bite and a deep red juice spurts down her bottom lip and spatters over her chin. She doesn't notice, she looks at Gilbert thoughtfully then pops the other half in her mouth.

'Myrtillus,' she says, softly. 'I read in your mother's book that when Adam and Eve had to leave Eden he took wheat and dates to sustain them, and myrtle to remind him of his first days of love for Eve...'

As she says this a length of her hair whips over her nose; her great grey eyes loom above. The look she gives him is so intense he is sure she can see inside him. For one devastating moment Gilbert feels like falling at her feet, then he brings his hand to her face and brushes her hair away. Golden freckles dapple her skin, her pink lips stained blood red.

'You spilled some...' he mutters, and traces his finger over the stain. His mouth soon follows and his tongue, as he licks the ruby juice from her skin.

'I never-' she murmurs, her voice almost lost in the wind, '-never dreamed this is who you were- all that time I refused to forgive you. You don't know how sorry I am, to have missed all those years with you.'

Gilbert presses his palm against hers before weaving their fingers together. 'You're not wearing your ring,' he says shyly, staring hard at her hand. 'But if you were Anne, if you were... I would take it from you and place it here-' He points to her third finger and leaves a deep red stain on her skin. 'I don't want us to part ever again.'

It's been said before, but that doesn't make it less true. Nothing soothes an orphan so much as a promise to stay. When Anne kisses Gilbert this time something inside her opens. In that moment he can see into her; hear her words in his head:

 _He will never leave me..._

When they walk home together late in the afternoon they are, every one of them, silent. Fred peels away first, he had been holding Diana's hand and he brings it to his lips and pecks it, before slowly walking away. Diana looks after him but he doesn't turn around. Anne lets go Gilbert's hand and puts her arm around her friend.

'Don't-' Diana protests, 'you'll only make me cry... and Minnie-May'll want to know why I look so blotchy.'

'We can't have that, can we?' Anne says, gently. 'Not the Belle of Avonlea.'

She and Gilbert link arms with Diana and march her all the way to Green Gables. After saying a brief hello to Marilla and Martin, Gilbert walks Diana home. He doesn't go back to his place from there, he crosses the little bridge and runs back to Anne. She's still on the front porch and paces up and down, her mouth gaping, her hands splayed with a brilliant excitement.

'Gilbert!' she calls to him, as he jogs into the yard. 'Gil, I'm so glad you came back, I have such news to tell you -but did Diana get home alright?'

'She did. Afternoon, once again, Miss Cuthbert. Mr Rossi,' Gilbert says, lifting his cap.

He decides to leave it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his trousers. Anne runs to the edge of the porch, gripping the rail, the stain on her left hand still brightly scarlet. He wants to run to her but he makes himself walk at what he thinks is a normal pace; it's easy to forget what's acceptable and what isn't whenever he's with Anne. He looks up at her but she can't seem to pull her gaze away from the clouds above. They've been racing the wind today and Anne is so breathless she sounds like she's been up there with them.

'Gil,' she says, 'you'll never guess what? Martin came by with the mail-'

'Thought that was Fred's job-'

'Ho ho, listen-' she says, impatiently, then looks over at Marilla and asks if Gilbert is allowed to know. At the barest nod Anne erupts. 'Oh Gilbert! We've just had word from Dr Chowdury, Marilla's new oculist,' she explains. 'He's been discussing her case with a specialist in Kingsport, there's a new operation available and he thinks, Dr Chowdury thinks, Marilla is the perfect candidate. The specialist is willing to come to Charlottetown to see her, he'll be there next week and if he agrees then Marilla can have the procedure. _Next week!_ Isn't that wonderful?'

'That is wonderful. I wish you every success, Miss Cuthbert-'

'Oh, but Gilbert that's not all-'

'I figured as much,' he says. 'Let me guess, you're going too-'

'Well, of course I am. And Martin. We're agreed, are we not Martin Rossi, that Marilla is not allowed to be alone for one moment?'

'Indeed,' he says, and pats Marilla's hand, confident the two young people at the other end of the porch are not about to take their eyes off each other.

'If Martin is with Marilla, where will you be?' Gilbert asks, bounding up the porch steps.

'That concerns the other letter- yes, I got one too- from the Echo! Gilbert, you won't believe it! They _like_ my idea! They _adore_ my idea! They- they want to meet me- _next week-_ while I'm in Charlottetown with Marilla!'

'The stars have aligned-'

'They want to me to write a column every week and offered to pay five dollars a column! That's almost as much as I earn from teaching! Gilbert I-I-'

'Excuse me, Miss Cuthbert,' Gilbert says, grinning, 'but I have to do this-' He collects Anne in his arms and swings her round the porch. 'Oh my girl, my girl, I knew you could do it, I knew it!' he cries. When he puts her down again they notice Marilla and Martin have gone inside. 'I- uh, was that wrong?'

'Why should it be, Matthew would have done the same. Oh! Would you come with me, to tell him, will you walk with me to the graveyard?'

Gilbert felt he would have walked Anne to the moon just then. The whole way there he holds her hand and never lets go, not even when they pass the twitching curtains on Newbridge Road.

He lies in the long grass and listens to Anne and watches the clouds dash over the sky, and he thinks there is nowhere he wants to be right now then here in Avonlea with her. She turns from the gravestone and tucks her tips of her slippers under the arm that cradles his head.

'I've been thinking... about the school here in Avonlea, and- I want you to take it-'

'Anne, you don't even know if you've lost your job, you can keep teaching _and_ write this column-'

'I don't want to be a teacher, I knew that in the first week. I want to write. Now I can truly devote myself to it. To have this chance to give the school back to you, you must know what that means to me.'

'I never did it so you could pay me back.' Gilbert rolls on his stomach and starts playing with the little black ribbons on Anne's shoes. 'I dunno... I like White Sands, I like being my own man-' he says, but with half a heart, as though hoping -wishing- Anne has more to say.

'Gilbert, I...' Anne's voice gives way. She knows now why he couldn't look her in the eyes when he daubed her finger with bilberry juice. Who knew this would be so hard? 'I don't want to be parted from you either,' she murmurs, 'I know that it's selfish but... I don't want to wait to see you on weekends, or summers. I- I want to see you every day-'

'Excuse me, Matthew,' Gilbert says, and scoots up and plants a hot kiss on Anne's open mouth. 'Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you to say that to me?'

'Since you put your mark on my finger?'

'Since the first day we met.'

Anne laughs, she can't help it. Happiness feels like it's spilling from every part of her; joy, excitement, gratitude and love...

'Listen I have to go,' Gilbert says, 'I'm already late for milking.' He drops another kiss on the top of her head. 'Can I tell Ma, about the Echo, I know she'll be wanting to know?'

'Tell her about the school too, Gil, I have a feeling she'll like the idea even more than I do!'

But as Gilbert is about to discover Anne could not be more wrong.

 **...**

 _* second earlies are new potatoes, or rather the new potatoes that come after the first early harvest (does anyone actually care?)_

 _* cette pauvre Tourtiere means poor old Meatpie  
_

Thank you for reading, your reviews fascinate me, you really are a brilliant bunch.

Love, k.


	29. And sweet is every sound

How do you tell a girl you're leaving after promising to stay? If you're Gilbert Blythe you don't. You choose to look on the bright side, trust in Providence and believe that same girl will be coming with you. It could happen. If anyone can conjure a miracle Anne Shirley can. This is what he tells himself; that Marilla will be cured and Anne will accept her job offer at the Echo. She can write just as easily at Redmond as she can in Avonlea. When he crosses the Strait in a month's time she may very well be sitting next to him.

He doesn't let himself think on that possibility -the two of them alone in Kingsport- he just spends the time they have before she goes to Charlottetown touching and tasting her as much as possible.

'Anyone would think I was never coming back- stop!' Anne shrieks, and kicks him away.

'Have I told you you have perfect feet?'

'Yes, about two minutes ago- Gil stop! I'm trying to read this-'

'And I'm trying to kiss your toes-'

'Well as owner of said toes I believe I have the last word on the matter. I think you'll find they're out of reach now.' As she says this Anne tucks her knees under herself, her toes peep from under the hem of her chemise.

'I dunno,' Gilbert says, running his hand over his jaw, 'I have awfully long fingers... and they can reach awfully far...'

He walks those fingers up her spine and into the ticklish dip between her shoulder and her neck. There is no way Anne can ignore that. She tosses the book aside and shuffles forward so that Gilbert overbalances and falls on his stomach. Taking her chance she pins him down, her thighs astride his, and blows raspberries all over his back. He giggles like a little boy and when he can stand no more twists round so that she finds herself sitting on his stomach. His hands grip her hard by the hips. When Anne tries to wriggle free she finds that she can't.

Sometimes she likes knowing how much stronger he is than her, sometimes she doesn't. And this is one of those times.

'Let go,' she says, not coldly, but with a tone that tells him she means it.

Gilbert loosens his hold, his hands out wide. 'Anne, I was messing, I'm sorry.'

'I don't like feeling trapped- I never have-'

'I know. I wasn't thinking- most girls like being teased _.'  
_

'Like Ruby, you mean?'

Anne slides off him and reaches for her book. It's a copy of Virgil with a letter from Marilla's doctor folded inside. Gilbert kneels alongside her. He brings his hand to his mouth, leans in close and pretends to whisper.

'I'm not one for kiss-and-tell, but I'll tell you this so long as you promise - _promise-_ it goes no further.'

'I promise nothing,' Anne says, mildly.

'I'll take my chances,' Gilbert continues. 'Now I know this might come to a great shock to you, but me and Ruby Gillis? Nothing happened.'

Anne drops her book. 'But she said- scratch that, she _says_ it all the time. Just yesterday she told me the only reason you saved me for last was because you like a challenge-'

'Saved you for last- what, like dessert?'

'If you mention plumpuffs then Virgil and I are going straight back home.'

'Well Virgil can leave anytime he likes.'

Anne shakes her head. Her damp hair brushes over her face and sticks to her cheeks. In high summer the stream is low but that didn't stop them getting sopping wet. Their clothes are on troll rock, their underwear on them. Anne's chemise is almost dry, one strap down by her elbow. She hitches it up impatiently and narrows her shining eyes.

'You are in a very strange mood today, Blythe. Telling secrets, insulting Virgil, what's got into you?'

For a moment he almost tells her:

 _I told my mother about taking the Avonlea school and she told me about Dr Lavendar. She's stashed away more than a thousand dollars, enough to pay for four years at Redmond._

He longs to say it out loud. Not only because he wants her to know but because his father, his easy-going, unassuming father, hasn't said a word all week. John Blythe's silent fury is another reason why Gilbert grabs every opportunity to take refuge in Anne.

'You're leaving, that's what's got into me.' As soon as he says it he regrets it and grabs the book from her lap and flicks through the pages. 'But if you'd rather wade through the Georgics-'

'I thought Dr Chowdury's letter might interest you at least. I like him, Gilbert. I can't imagine Dr Spencer describing point for point the surgical procedures involved in an iridectomy. But Dr Chowdury welcomes my questions. Promise you'll remember that when you become a doctor. Don't pat your patients on the head and tell them not to worry. A good doctor mustn't ration his knowledge.'

Gilbert nods absently, says as evenly as he can manage, 'What do you think... about me- wanting to be a doctor?'

'I think you'll do a sterling job in Anatomy class,' Anne jokes.

He shuts the book with a clap. 'Don't say that,' he says. 'Not you.'

'Why ever not?'

'Because you sound like everyone else and you're not.' He reaches for her hand, rubs her skin and names her bones in his head. 'You're real- this is real- what we have. And nothing can break it, right?'

Anne goes still as still; he can tell she is remembering the life she had before she came here. Then her brow furrows and she shakes her head again. 'I don't know -I _don't_ ,' she insists when she sees the look on Gilbert's face. 'You mustn't count on things not breaking, Gil. Things break all the time-'

'Not us,' he says, and clasps her hand, squeezing it almost roughly. 'We won't break.'

'Gilbert, what is it, are you worried I'll take the job and stay in Charlottetown? Because I won't. My life is here in Avonlea, with Marilla... with you...'

The words almost slip from his mouth again and because he hates lying he kisses her in such a way -slowly, softly, biting her bottom lip, caressing her neck- until he is sure there will be no more talking.

In the morning Anne leaves with Marilla and Martin, with courage in her heart and hopes held high. A week later she comes back frightened and defeated, and every hour after Gilbert wishes he had told Anne when he had the chance. Because how can he tell her now?

He might follow the example of Diana Barry, who is marching over to Green Gables with news of her own departure. She's finally resolved to take her teacher's licence and is leaving at the end of the month.

'I brought cake,' she says.

Anne smiles weakly and shuts the front door. 'Let's eat it out here. I don't want to disturb Marilla-'

'Oh darling, what happened? You've been back for two days and I haven't heard a peep. I thought perhaps I should leave you be, give Marilla some peace after such an ordeal. Then I heard _Mrs Lynde_ was sent away _._ I knew for sure something must be wrong.'

Anne slumps on the porch step and gazes down the drive. Her eyes look sore from too much crying. Her voice is thin, squeezed from a throat that is swollen and raw. ' _Wrong?_ That word is too small to describe these last few days. Do you want to know how I really feel? _Punished_ -'

'Anne, don't say such things. God isn't punishing you-'

Anne looks at Diana coolly. 'Isn't he?'

'Of course not. Dearest, please, I think you should tell me what's happened. It won't do any good brooding like this.'

Anne stares out at the drive again. The lilies that line it hang their heads like white hooded pietas; she can almost make out their desolate wails. She feels Diana's hand clutch at hers. No, she doesn't feel it, she notices it. Her body has gone numb; her voice a mechanical drone as the whole sad truth comes out.

'It isn't glaucoma. Marilla has a growth- a- a small tumour pressing against her eyes. They noticed it when they were operating. When she came round from the ether they told her what they'd found. The specialist believes he can get at it but it means severing the optic nerves. If Marilla decides to have it removed she'll be permanently blind-'

' _No-_ Anne-'

'It was such a mess, Di,' Anne cuts in, anxious to get it all out. 'Because I'd only just returned from the Echo. I arrived at the hospital fretting about how to tell her, while Marilla was lying there fretting about how to tell me, and Martin-'

'Tell her _what?_ What happened at the paper?'

Anne begins to shake her head, slowly at first then with such vehemence the hair that remains in her bun comes loose and falls round her shoulders. 'They don't want me- they don't want me- oh, Diana, they don't want me...'

Fresh tears ensue. Diana pats Anne's hand and makes soothing noises, knowing all too well how much easier it is to grieve the small losses when the big ones overwhelm us.

'What do you mean they don't want you? I read the letter myself, they were practically fizzing with excitement, I don't understand.'

Anne takes a deep breath and forces herself to recall the scene. The flabbergasted faces of the Board members when they realised A. Shirley from Avonlea was a seventeen year old girl. Impossible, they said. Abominable. It wouldn't do at all. The Echo reported scandals, they didn't create them. Hiring a child, a _girl_ , to write advice to single men? They would lose half their advertisers in a week! No self-respecting business would ever be associated with such impropriety. It was when Anne suggested she might assume an alias like Dr Lavendar that the room went silent. Mr Oliver stood up and ordered everyone out of the room.

'Care to expand on that last statement?'

'All I meant was if you can do it for Dr Lavendar why can't you do it for me?'

Robert Oliver strode over to Anne, slowly, as though measuring his words. 'Are you... _blackmailing_ me, Miss Shirley?'

'I would never, this job means too much-'

'Then how is it you know the identity of Lavendar? Speak! Quickly now, because I am this close to throwing you onto the street.'

'Please no-' Anne pleaded. 'I know because I've been here before... In June. I delivered a letter-'

Robert Oliver's pouchy eyes went wide. ' _You!_ You're the little secretary, the one who kept dropping her notebook, the- the- plumpuff!'

Anne nodded miserably. 'It was all a mistake, I never meant to intrude-'

Mr Oliver held up his hand signalling Anne to stop. 'I'm not interested in your story. A piece of work like you could make up anything. All I want to know is who you talked to after that. I want names and I want them now.'

A moment ago Anne wanted to dissolve into the floor. Then she heard his demand and the implication behind it. She rose to her feet, her chin rising with her.

'I told _no one,_ ' she retorted, 'and I never will. I didn't come here to trick you, Mr Oliver, I came because you asked me to!'

For the first time in a long time Robert Oliver took a backwards step.

'Then something strange happened, Di,' Anne says. Diana had been licking icing off her finger and it emerges from her lips with a pop. 'He laughed,' Anne tells her, 'he actually laughed. He said he hadn't met a girl with such spirit for years- decades- I forget which exactly- and then... he offered me a _job!_ '

'The column?'

'No, I couldn't change his mind about that. He offered me a cadetship. He wants me to train as a journalist, said if I could inviegle my way into the board room of the largest newspaper in Charlottetown I could get in anywhere. He said I was smart as a tack-'

'You are-'

'Brave as a bear-'

'That too-'

'And unafraid to speak the truth. He told me in all his years he'd yet to meet that mix in any man, let alone a seventeen year old girl.'

'Goodness,' Diana gasps, 'what did you say?'

Anne looks sidelong at her friend. 'I'm ashamed to admit I said I would think about it. Then just before I left he asked for the sample of writing I was supposed to bring. So I gave it to him, I don't know why, by that time all I could think of was getting back to Marilla.'

'Oh darling, it's not fair, it's not- you deserve this chance, you've already given up so much. To think you could have been moving to Charlottetown with me! It's not fair, it's not, it's not!'

The same words have been echoing through Anne's head for the last five days. But as soon as she hears Diana say them she is suddenly compelled to make light of it all.

'It doesn't matter, not really, the cadetship is just some new fancy, I'll forget about it soon enough. It's Marilla I care about. I truly believed I could save her, Diana. If I'd only tried harder, paid more attention, instead of distracting myself with... other things.

For reasons best known to herself it's at this moment that Diana chooses to mention Gilbert. 'He offered up a prayer at Prayer Meeting yesterday. He hasn't done that for ever so long.'

'Gil knows -about Marilla?'

'No one _knows_ ,' Diana says carefully, 'we only suspect that something about the operation didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Don't worry, darling. If anyone is allowed to hide at home and lick their wounds it's you. Though,' she cautions, 'I might invite Mrs Lynde back as soon as you can manage it. You know if she's excluded from something it's all she wants to talk about.'

'It wasn't me who turned Mrs Lynde away, it was Marilla. She turns everyone away -even Martin.'

'Anne,' Diana says, shyly, 'I don't mean to pry but are... Martin and Marilla courting?'

Anne lowers her head and shrugs. 'I used to think so. Now... I don't know- I don't know anything anymore.'

Diana wraps her arms around her friend and hugs her fiercely. 'Oh sweetheart, I just hate to leave you at such a time, I feel so awful-'

'Please don't,' Anne begs, 'you mustn't _ever_ feel sorry for following your dreams. My place is in Avonlea and all things considered it's a rather wonderful place to be. The only thing that matters is Marilla. I want to help her, Di, only... I don't know how.'

'Then you've forgotten the most important thing about Marilla Cuthbert,' Diana says. 'She doesn't take help from anyone.'

Martin Rossi appears to have forgotten that, too. He arrives not long after Diana leaves and finds Anne sitting on the porch, tracing swirls in the icing of uneaten cake. Anne licks her finger absently and gives a start. She hasn't eaten much these past few days; the chocolate is so sweet it makes her wince. Martin notes her expression and takes off his old felt hat. They stare at each the way people who have shared a crisis do. His smudgy brown eyes are remarkably lucid. He presses his lips together, then he clears this throat, steeling himself to speak.

'I don't care what she says this time, Anne, I aim to see Marilla and I'm not leavin' till I do.'

'She's sleeping at the moment, Martin.'

Martin stamps his foot. 'Sleepin' my eye!' he fumes. 'I don't believe you and I don't understand any of it. She went for that operation with a smile on her face, then she comes out and refuses to speak to me. I spent hours in that hospital corridor, days, just waiting to hear one word. It ain't right her cuttin' me off like this, I don't even know what I've done. Well I mean to find out. I'm not leavin', not till she talks to me. You hear me, Marilla Cuthbert,' he yells up at her window, 'I ain't leavin'!'

That Martin has never spoken so many words to Anne is shocking enough, that he speaks them with such passion leaves her speechless.

'Now the cat's got your tongue, too,' he says, kicking at the red dirt under his boots. 'The world really has gone catawumpus when Anne Shirley ain't got somethin' to say.'

Anne's handes twitch and she shifts away from the chocolate cake. 'Mr Rossi, I know this is hard-'

'Hard?' His rumbly voice catches on the word and he looks for something else to kick. 'Do you know what these past days have been like for me? And there's no one I can talk to, not one.'

'Please,' Anne tries again, 'I can't tell you anything about Marilla, not if she doesn't want you to know. But you can talk to me if you like. In fact,' she says, attempting lightheartedness, 'I'd say there's never been a better time. Seeing as I have nothing to say there's a fair chance you'll get a word in edgewise.'

He doesn't need convincing. He sits down and he tells her, just like that, while the sun hits the cake and turns its chocolate peaks to an oily brown slick. Revealing how he'd held a tiny candle for Marilla Cuthbert ever since William Bell accused him of letting the cows into the cabbage patch. Marilla had stormed out of Lawsons and gave William Bell what for. No one had ever stood up for Martin Rossi before. He walked away with his head held high and for the next five years contented himself with admiring Marilla from afar.

'To know there was such a woman in the world was more than enough for me. It wasn't till after the storm that I realised what a big heart she has... To tell the truth it near broke me. Not because we lost the house, that old heap meant nothin' to me 'cept that it was mine. It's womenfolk who make a home but it's menfolk must provide 'em, Anne. Man can't call himself a man till he can give a woman that. So there I was, lost everythin', yet Marilla saw somethin' of worth in me -as a friend, you understand?'

'Better than you know,' Anne murmurs. 'But you were hoping for more than that, I think?'

Martin begins to mangle his hat. 'Just liked bein' in her company. Though it's more than I deserve. See, I know I'm no farmer, nor a builder, I ain't even much of a father. There's nothin' I can offer Marilla, nothin' I'm really good at-'

'Martin, that's not true-' Anne cuts in. She takes his hat from him and squeezes his hand, encouragingly. 'You're good at the one thing that truly matters... You're good at loving her.'

Martin gives Anne a startled look and goes an ugly shade of red. 'Even if that was true, it ain't true any longer. If I was any good at... what you say,' he mumbles, 'she'd see me, wouldn't she, instead of shuttin' me out?' His hand digs into his pocket and he pulls out a crumpled envelope. 'I was plannin' on readin' this to her, even if I had to stand outside her window to do it. She still has her bandages on, I suppose?'

Anne nods mutely, surprised Martin could know this. Marilla's bandages were supposed to come off three days ago but she refuses to let anyone touch them.

'Will you read it to her then?' Martin asks. 'It's nothin' more'n I told you. I just wanted her to know I don't care what those doctor's told her. She's perfect, Anne. Perfect to me.'

He drops the letter on the porch and shuffles down the drive. Anne waits until she hears the click of the gate latch, then she picks up the chocolate cake, lifts it above her head, and smashes it onto the path. It's not enough. Fresh anger pulses through her. She yearns to scream, longs to run; feel the blood in her body pump through her limbs not pool around her heart. All she can think of is going to Matthew, but that means walking by the Blythe place and there is no way Anne is doing that.

Why, _why_ , when Mrs Blythe was so bent on helping everyone else, why did she never try to help Marilla? And where was Gilbert? Why was he offering prayers when he should be here, with her, vowing to stay by her side?

Anne stares up the drive again but there is no sound of boots sprinting up the lane, no lazy whistle to tell her he is here. She falls on her knees, collects the shattered cake then trudges to the pigpen and dumps it into the trough. The walk back to the house feels twenty miles long and she leans against the backdoor till her shoulder starts to ache. Memories come, of Martin with the goffering iron, Dora making tea, Marilla piecing a quilt together, and herself with a dandelion in one hand and a pen in the other.

Anne never believed she could feel so forlorn in her own home, and she falls onto the kitchen sofa and lets out a low lost wail.

'Where are you-where are you-where are you-,' she cries.

She doesn't know it, but she isn't calling for Gilbert. Or Matthew, or Diana, or Mrs Blythe, or even God. Perhaps only the white lilies know Anne is calling to herself, and the dreams that have shrunk so small she can't see them anymore.

 **...**

Thank you so much for reading :o)


	30. Sweeter thy voice

The dawn light wakes Anne next morning. She forgot to pull her curtains and the Snow Queen's shifting shadows flicker over her face. She lies there with her eyes closed but even this is a kind of seeing: the sudden change from light to dark, the suggestion of a shape, the scintillating point of a sunbeam showing red through her eyelids. With the pads of her thumbs she presses on her eyes and tries to experience what it would be like to see nothing. She finds she can't. The fresh green scent slipping beneath the sash window, the comforting rustle of late summer leaves, all combine to form an image in her head.

How long does it take, she wonders, before you forget what the world looks like? Can you ever forget -and if you do is the world you invent even more beautiful than the one that exists? When Anne looks at the Snow Queen she always sees her dressed in white regardless of the season. Her little white room was a palace of damasks and silks long before the apple blossom wallpaper decorated its walls. Is this what makes blindness bearable: the ability to see things that aren't there? The answer doesn't bring much comfort. Marilla Cuthbert is hardly known for her vibrant imagination. At least that's what she said. But when her brother died Marilla said Anne mustn't think Matthew loved her more than she did. Didn't that speak of imagination? And this love Marilla didn't show, it must exist somewhere. If it wasn't expressed outwardly it was still felt inwardly. Wasn't that a sort of imagining?

Anne is dwelling on these things instead of getting out of bed and seeing to the breakfast because last night Marilla announced her decision. She said she had dithered long enough and made up her mind to follow the specialist's opinion and have the growth removed. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she had pressed Anne to fetch pen and paper, and dictated a letter to Dr Chowdury. Anne half expected to be ordered to the post office then and there, but Marilla was content for her to go the following morning.

There is another letter Marilla doesn't want to know about. It's still on her cherry wood dresser, all offers to read it brushed aside. Anne was half relieved. She would have died a death had Marilla read something of Gilbert's. Not that he wrote her anything save that recipe he copied out all that time ago. She remembers how he looked when he delivered it; the way he bounced on his toes as though longing to sprint away. The last time she saw him he kept clutching her body, reluctant to let go. She wonders if she will see him today when a voice calls to her from the hallway.

'Anne, can you get the door?'

Anne leaps from her bed, unable to believe what she is hearing. 'Marilla! What are you doing out of bed?'

Marilla pushes the tea tray at Anne then feels about for the door frame. 'Did I spill any?' she says.

Anne drags her eyes away from the almost ordinary sight of Marilla Cuthbert's face half bound in white gauze, and looks down at her tray. On it there is a cup of tea, a bread and butter plate with one of the dinner rolls Anne made last night, and a tiny dish of butter. The only thing missing is the knife.

'Oh you darling! _What_ have you done- _how_ have you done it- Dora's not here, is she?'

'You think I don't know my way around my own kitchen?' Marilla says.

She sounds gruff but Anne can tell she's pleased. She sets the tray on her desk and leads Marilla to her bed.

'But- you don't mean to tell me you've lit the stove and boiled the water?' Anne's eyes go wide, she almost leaps -she does leap. The tea things rattle on the tray.

'Trust you to spill it,' says Marilla, laughing. She holds out her hand and Anne clutches it tight.

'No fear. Every drop is still in my cup. But how, _how_ did you manage to pour it?'

'With the teapot I went by sound. You know the sound water makes as it fills up a vessel? With the cup, now that was trickier. I put my fingertip near the lip. Soon as the water nipped I knew I'd poured enough.'

'Clever Marilla. I didn't hear a thing. It was the quiet that convinced me I hadn't slept in. Dolly should be kicking the barn door by now waiting to be milked.'

'I did that too,' Marilla tells her, then picturing Anne's face she adds, 'Come now Anne Shirley, I've been milking cows since I was six. You hardly need eyes for that.'

'But how did you get around the yard?'

'Martin said a while back that since my eyesight was failing I should get in the habit of counting steps and turns whenever I move about. Of course his old shepherd's crook helped- to keep the hens away.'

Anne lets the reference to Martin pass. Taking advantage of Marilla's state she scrapes her finger over the knob of butter and smears it over her roll. 'Have some with me?' she says, placing half in Marilla's hand.

'Don't mind if I do. I've such an appetite this morning and there's hardly a scrap of food in the house.'

Anne thinks of the chocolate cake she fed to the pigs and her heart gives a guilty lurch. 'I wouldn't worry about that,' she says quickly. 'The moment we send word to the Lyndes we are receiving visitors I feel confident our poor pantry will soon be bursting again.'

Mrs Rachel does not disappoint. She comes with four gallons of 'bone broth for the invalid' and is only gone ten minutes before the door to Green Gables resounds with the knocks of good wives and daughters from as far afield as Grafton. It seems Marilla Cuthbert had done more than speak up for Martin. Anne can hardly take the hats from her guests before new tales of courage are bandied about in the hallway.

'Never forget the time she gave the butcher what for. We were behind on our bill, what with Jack being ill, and Marilla caught Ned Sloane cutting the gristle off our meat _after_ he weighed it! Why you mean little man, says Marilla, you'd sell your granny's gloves if she had a pocket to keep her hands in!'

'She offered up a prayer for my middle boy when he was sent to prison. Everyone acted like he was dead. Not Marilla Cuthbert!'

'She knew I'd be shamed for letting down the Church Mission, but I was that run down with the babied. So she knitted up four blankets and said that two were mine.'

'When my old Burt-rest-in-peace blacked my eye, no one knew what to say. Marilla Cuthbert made sure she was sitting next to me whenever I ventured out; Ladies Aid, Quilting Bee, so I always had someone to talk to.'

'Wish we could do more, dear,' they all tell Anne. 'Just happy the woman will let us do for _her_ for a change!'

All morning the Green Gables kitchen piles up with pies, tarts and cold stews. One thoughtful mother sends her boy with an enormous slab of ice that he pulls on his wagon.

'Ma figured you'd have none what with being away for a week,' he says, eyeing up the plate of lemon tarts Anne has in her hands.

Anne happily lets him fill his pockets. Their shelves are in danger of collapse. Marilla complains she will never get the hang of cooking blind because there's no longer any call to cook! Mrs Barry titters, Mrs Andrews sniffs, Mrs Pye simpers whilst thinking what an ungrateful old prune Miss Cuthbert is. Mrs Gillis wraps her arms around Marilla and gets a face full of cream puff for her pains.

'Dear me,' she says brightly, 'I keep forgetting, I need to warn you, Marilla dear, before I go about doing things like that.'

'Never mind, Mama,' says Ruby, 'on the plus side Miss Cuthbert has no idea how funny you look!'

Everyone laughs, but it isn't long before the older women begin suggesting the younger ones find something else to do. All the better to wheedle out the truth about Marilla's condition -as well as share the gossip she missed. Josie is the only one to protest. She had managed to find a corner seat near all the cakes. Anne and Diana are washing up, Jane is 'playing mother' and pouring out for all the guests, and Ruby is standing by with the sugar tongs pretending to help.

Mrs Gillis whisks them from her and laughs again. 'Off you go the lot of you. Anne needs a dose of fresh air!'

Surprisingly Marilla concurs. 'You have my letter to post, do you not?'

Anne dries her hands on her apron. 'Alright, we're going, we're going. But not for long!' she vows.

As she walks down the hall she hears Mrs Barry say, 'What a blessing you took her in when you did. Marilla Cuthbert. What would you have done without her?'

The afternoon air has the colour and mildness of butter. A gentle sunlight makes every leaf glossy and summons an unctuous scent from the late summer flowers. Anne's shoulders bear the reassuring weight of Jane's arm, while her waist is clinched by the petite hand of Ruby. Josie cradles a tart in her hand and nibbles it slowly, hoping to make it last till they get to the post office. Diana walks in front, gathering flowers as she goes. The Birch Path is filled with them now the dead wood has been cleared. Bright clusters of willow herb and rabbits foot, jewel weed and sedum, angelica and golden rod light the way. Diana is hunting out pearly-everlasting for her bonnet, but Anne's eyes are drawn to other flowers; boneset, arnica, bull thistle and Joe Pye weed.

She bends down and snaps off a tall sprig of the feathery purple blooms and offers it to Josie.

'Very droll, Anne,' Josie says. 'I wasn't named for a weed, you know.'

Anne grins, goodnaturedly. 'Joe Pye isn't its real name. It's empatorium purpureum,' she adds, for no other reason than because she is Anne Shirley. 'A hundred years ago people knew it as Jopi. It's a Mi'kmaq name,' she explains, when the girls give her blank looks. 'Jopi was a healer who travelled the Island curing typhus. Isn't it wondrous the way the world turns?' she says, drawing the tiny flowers close.

'One hundred years from now they might be calling it Josie Pye weed,' Jane muses, then shrieks as Josie gives her an expert goosing.

They might be seventeen but they still behave like children when there are no adults to see them. Jane, like Anne, hails from the tall, lithe tribe and runs through the Birch Path squealing as she goes. Being a Pye, Josie isn't concerned with running her down, so much as working out the shortest route to catch her. She leaves the path and veers left, trusting Jane will be too dull to consider heading anywhere but their intended destination. Ruby follows, because Ruby always follows; her sisters aver the real reason she tilts her hat at Gilbert Blythe is because they all had their way with him first. Diana looks back at Anne, who is the only one not to have noticed the other girls have scarpered.

'Mrs Blythe's through there,' she says, pointing past the everlastings. 'At least I think it's her. I heard that funny humming song, the one she makes when she's-'

'Harvesting herbs,' Anne finishes. She lays the Joe Pye weed in Diana's basket and takes her hand.

'Well?' says Diana, 'aren't you going to say hello?'

Before Anne can answer Rowena appears from behind a myrtle bush. She's wearing a sapphire blue cloak and there are glinting gold scissors in her basket. 'Hello there girls!' she calls, and hastens towards them. 'Goodness, look at you both, like little wood nymphs.'

Anne makes a polite greeting. Diana's is rather more gushing; keenly aware Anne is not her usual spirited self.

'What are you planning to do with all those?' Diana asks Mrs Blythe. 'That's St John's wort, isn't it?'

'Is it for Marilla?' Anne can't help asking.

Mrs Blythe grimaces. 'If I could get Marilla Cuthbert to take one drop of anything I'd made I would die a happy woman. No,' she says, the smile fleeing her face, 'this is for me. I'm afraid to say I'm in need of a brew.' Her hands goes to Anne's cheeks. 'What about you, young lady, it's been a while since I had you round for one of my wild teas. Do you have time?'

Anne colours and looks at her slippers. 'Well- I- I did say I would post a letter for Marilla-'

'I can do it,' Diana volunteers, pushing Anne in Mrs Blythe's direction. 'You have your tea, I'll see you tomorrow.' She whisks the envelope from the pocket of Anne's apron and blows them both a kiss.

Anne and Rowena don't say a word all the way to the Blythe place. Anne reflects on what Mrs Blythe said about Marilla. Rowena's thoughts are very much on Anne. There are some who accuse her of reading people's minds but she is merely an astute observer. When they sit in the covered porch half an hour later nursing their mugs of golden tea, Rowena resumes the conversation as though there had never been a silence.

'I did try- with Marilla. When her eyes first troubled her I rushed to Green Gables with my potions and balms but she didn't want to know. To her the word of her doctor is same as the word of her minister. Taking advice from the likes of me would be akin to turning Methodist.'

There is a smile in her gold-brown eyes but Anne doesn't see it. She is staring at her tea and the one tiny yellow petal that escaped the tea strainer. 'I wish you'd said this before,' she says.

'You are Marilla's child, not mine. When you're a mother you'll understand.'

'I won't be a mother,' Anne says briskly, 'my life is with Marilla.'

Rowena shakes her head and puts down her mug. 'Do stop saying that, Anne.'

Anne looks up from her tea and blinks. 'Why shouldn't I say it? It's the truth-'

'It's a burden, is what it is. One that Marilla doesn't deserve. What do you think she will say when she hears you're giving up courting- marrying- children- all on her account? You'll be robbing her of the pleasure of seeing you wed, holding your child, and for what, some nonsense idea of sacrifice-'

Anne had been listening with a tolerant ear the way children do, nodding vaguely whilst waiting for the well meaning advice to finish. Perhaps Rowena knew this, which is why she went out of her way to use _that_ word. Whether or not she meant it, it works. Anne jumps up so quickly the hot tea scalds her hands and she quickly sets it on the floor. _'Nonsense?_ ' she fumes. 'And when your son gave up the Avonlea school- when he paid for the hired man, was that nonsense too?'

'I can't answer for the school, but the other... yes, that was nonsense,' she says, calmly. 'I told you the Echo pays well- how did your interview go, by the way?'

'I'm not saying another word until you make your meaning plain!'

'Fair enough,' says Rowena, and curls up in her rocker and stares out the large porch window.

The geraniums are gone, replaces with mismatched pots of herbs. Rare ones too, Anne thinks, and she names them in her head without knowing she is doing it: lungwort, ladies smock, sea holly, star anise... the herbs from the Rossi's new place.

'So, Dr Lavender,' Mrs Blythe says suddenly. 'The chap has earned me a small fortune over the years. But I expect what you really want to know is why we accepted Gilbert's help when we could have paid for the hired man ourselves? I'm afraid that's where my foolishness comes in, Anne. You see long ago I hatched a plan-'

'Ma, what are you doing?' Rowena twists round to see Gilbert at the back door, hands caked in red earth, bare chest dusted with the same. He enters the covered porch warily as though the floor was strung with traps. 'It's not for you to tell,' he says quietly. 'Anne should hear it from me.'

'There's gratitude,' Rowena huffs.

She gives Anne a teasing look. Anne does not respond in kind, instead she steps toward Gilbert. She doesn't mean to, she's so mad at him she wants to scream. But something about seeing him again acts like a rope looped round her middle, pulling her closer and closer. When her heart is beating with a righteous anger, while his mother is standing right there, Anne stares at him, hotly, and thinks to herself: I've kissed him there and there and there and there...

Then Rowena touches her arm and the spell is broken. 'I'll leave you be,' she murmurs.

'No Mrs Blythe, you don't have to go - _I'll_ go-'

'I'd like to see you try,' she says, hastening out of the room.

Anne feels hot and pinched. She sits on the day bed and crosses her arms. 'Tell me what?' she says, crisply.

'Can I wash up first?' Gilbert asks her. The glare she gives him says it all. 'Right, so... right, I'll just-'

'Here,' Anne snaps, 'use this,' and offers the skirt of her apron.

He kneels at her feet. The movement of his hands tug her closer and the rope at her waist goes taut and tight. Is this what it is to be 'boy crazy', is this what Miss Barry meant? Because right now Anne is thinking if he kisses me, if he lifts his dirt streaked face and presses his lips on mine, I shall kiss him back so violently he'll fall on back on the floor.

Gilbert doesn't kiss her. He wants to, though it would be fair to say the tug he feels hits him further down. But the last time he silenced her with a kiss had brought them to this moment, and he wants to dig himself out of this hole not get in even deeper. He can feel her thigh under his hand as he wipes his palm, and pictures it, bareskinned and white. Slowly he backs away, though it takes an act of will to do it. He assumed it would be just as hard to tell her, but it comes out easily. It's almost a relief.

'I'm going to Redmond in September.'

'I figured as much,' she says.

Gilbert falls back in amazement. 'When did you know?'

'When did _you_ know?' she counters.

She wraps her arms around her knees and hugs them to herself. Gilbert decides to remain on the floor. He crosses his legs and starts worrying chunks of mud from his sole. His battered black boots and a pair of canvas trousers are all that he wears; that and a kind of flimsy armour he tried to build around himself. He swallows hard and looks at up her. 'Two weeks ago, more or less,' he admits. 'Now tell me when you found out.'

'Two minutes ago-'

'Did Ma tell you?'

'She was going to, but I put it all together before the words came out. I've been wondering for a while now what she was doing with her money. I never said because it's not my business. I'm happy for you Gilbert.'

Anne lobs those last words like a weapon. She wants them to hurt and they do, but Gilbert isn't ready to show that yet. He stands up and dusts his hands on his trousers. 'Can I- I want to wash up, will you wait?'

She follows him out the back door and sits on the bottom step watching him. Gilbert dunks his head in the water butt. The old tin bath is empty. He grabs his shirt from a hook by the door and dries his face and hair. The curls fall into ringlets and he attempts to smooth them down.

'Where's your father?'

'He doesn't come in for tea these days, prefers to take his meals in the field.'

'Because of the money?'

'Because of the money.' Gilbert kicks the scrubbing brush and buttons up his shirt. 'Of all the things for my folks to quarrel over... I never thought...'

The rope that binds them goes loose. Anne takes up the slack and pulls from him the details of the silent war at the Blythe place. His mother has been setting aside half her wages from the Echo since the day Miss Stacey asked if Gilbert could join the Queen's class. She laid twelve hundred dollars on the table and smiled at him like an angel. Gilbert had never seen such a sum and looked at it like it was fairy's gold, expecting it to vanish at every moment. His father stared at his wife with a chill disbelief, knowing none of it was for him.

'Don't look at me like that, John. If I hadn't done this, if I had given every penny to the farm, what would we have now? One mortgage instead of two. And Gilbert scrimping till he's thirty hoping to get to Redmond-'

'I don't deny I could have done with the money but that's not what hurts and you know it, Ro. You kept this from me for years, and for what, so you could be the one to save our boy?'

'This has nothing to do with Lottie-'

'Nothing? I can't think of a thing you do that isn't about our girl. Trying to fix everyone, save everyone... When will you see that it's not going to bring her back!'

Rowena the indomitable, the wise, the bold-hearted, fled the dining room like a coward. John didn't follow, he left his chair and pressed his calloused hands onto his son's shoulder.

'I know what you're going say, Gil. The answer's no. Money's yours to make a doctor of yourself. Time you left, anyway, time your Ma undid those apron strings.'

In the time it's taken to tell her this Gilbert's head has found its way to Anne's lap. Her hands are in his hair, fluffing up all those curls he tried to pat down.

'Come to the woods with me,' he says, softly, 'I missed you so much, Anne-'

'So much you thought you would die?' Anne smiles, recalling Fred's words, then swiftly shakes her head. 'I can't, I really can't-'

Gilbert's head shoots up. He was already there in his mind, could feel the moss beneath their bodies, the filtered sunlight dancing over their skin. Anne's refusal hits him like icy water. 'Why?'

Anne stands and looks about for her hat, then realises she never took it off. 'I have to get back, I've already been too long.'

She refastens the hatpin and catches Gilbert's eye. He's looking at her as though she's speaking another language.

'Come for a walk with me at least, you haven't even told me about the operation- how it went at the Echo-'

'Another time-'

He stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out again and brings them to his head; his elbows splayed so wide the seams of his sleeves look as though they might give. 'You're disappointed in me for not telling you sooner.'

Anne shakes her head again.

'Then you're mad at me for leaving after promising to stay.'

'No,' Anne says, simply. 'I thought I was, but no.'

'Then _come_ \- for half an hour- ten minutes-' He takes her hand and weaves his fingers with hers but the rope that binds them has come undone and lays beneath their feet.

'Don't ask me to put you before Marilla-'

'That wasn't what I meant-'

'You've made your choice and I've made mine. This world we made, our secret Eden, it was never going to last, Gil, you know that.'

'But you could come too, don't you see, you can come to Redmond with me-'

'No, Gilbert,' Anne says, ' _you_ don't see. I am never leaving Green Gables.'

 **...**

 _* I don't know if Jopi was Mi'kmaq or not. He is described in 'Edible Wild Food' as Native American, so he might be from any Nation. I chose Mi'kmaq for artistic reasons. My apologies if this offends any readers._

I want to thank everyone for their reviews and follows and faves. I have never had so many in one go before and it makes me so happy to go out with a bang! I think there will be two perhaps three chapters after this. I'm gonna 'follow-grub' now and tell you that someone dear to me has promised me something sentimental and sweet (his words) if I make 50 followers. So if you're feeling 'button-pressy' please do. If you aren't that's cool too.

love, kwak


	31. But every sound is sweet

Something unexpected happens next, like a burst of sunshine after a week of rain, Anne laughs. Not without reason, Gilbert makes a joke first. He takes a step back, scratches his head and says, 'Well let me see you home at least. If you're never leaving Green Gables it'd be nice to walk you there one last time.'

Anne attempts a scoff, which comes out as a snort, and she laughs. Then she laughs at herself for laughing because it _is_ so unexpected. The way a shaft of light breaks through the clouds after a vicious storm. One can't have life without sun, and one can't live a good one without laughter. It bubbles inside Anne, filling her mouth and throat, whirling round her heart and through her belly, till she is bent over double and clutching it.

By this time Gilbert is laughing too, because laughter is catching and because he's relieved, and because it simply feels good to laugh again. Old tensions and gnawing guilt flake off him like dried earth. He feels clean in a way he hasn't felt clean for weeks. And Anne? Well she looks like Anne again, sounds like Anne too. Her hands are on her knees, and she looks up at him and makes a sigh that goes through her whole body and reverberates through his.

'Oh, Gil- oh I needed that,' she says, 'I thought my face would crack it's been that long since I laughed.'

He wishes he could make her laugh again, but it's enough to know he's still able to. He offers her his arm and they walk down the side of the house together and out onto Newbridge Road.

If he notices the softness of her unbound breast against his forearm he doesn't show it, he doesn't even let himself think about it. He presses Anne to tell him everything he doesn't know, about the operation, about Martin, and finally about the Echo. They pass the ancient pine and have almost reached the gate by the time Anne gets to the part where Mr Oliver offers Anne a cadetship. Gilbert can tell she wants it. He knows that excited trill in her voice, the dramatic pauses, the wistful look in her eyes, and is struck with an uneasy realisation that Anne never sounded this excited about Redmond.

'What does Marilla say?' is his next question.

'She says it was just as well they rejected the column. She never held with my idea of writing under an alias.'

'Lucky Ma doesn't have the same scruples.'

'So how does it feel, having Dr Lavendar for a mother?'

'I'm so astounded by the money she saved I really haven't thought about it. I don't mind that she never told me, I don't even care that you knew before I did, I just wish she'd told Pa.'

'Grown-ups,' Anne says, and rolls her eyes.

'Grown-ups,' Gilbert agrees. He pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. 'Sometimes... I wish we could stay like this, Anne. The way we are now, and never grow old-'

'Don't you want to be a doctor?'

'It's so far off, even with Ma's money it still feels like a dream. I mean yes, there are times I can feel the scalpel in my hand and I wish I was that man right now, fighting for something bigger than me and my little troubles. But then there are other times -now for instance,' he adds quickly, 'when I think to myself, what's so wrong with the life I have now?'

The words fall away and he looks at Anne shyly. A duller girl might have assumed that Gilbert was on the verge of announcing his intentions, or at least believed himself in love with her. Not Anne. It is unthinkable to her that anyone should shrink their dreams for love. Love does not require it. Duty maybe. Not love.

'You're just saying that because it's all you know. One month at Redmond -one _day_ \- and you'll know what I know. You were meant for greater deeds. Not because you're smart or determined, because you have a heart of oak.'

'Oak _?_ '

'I felt it under your coat,' she says, 'the night we made our way through the snow storm.'

A duller boy might have felt flattered. Gilbert throws it back at her.

'What about you, are you going to just accept Harrison's decision? What did that editor fellow call you again- _brave as a bear_?'

Anne flushes, conscious that she has now told three people that exact same compliment. 'I couldn't keep teaching if I wanted to. Marilla needs me, Gilbert. Besides, I always longed for a chance to write. Now I can. I've already submitted something. Mr Oliver wanted a sample of my work and the only half decent thing I had was my story about the Ticket Inspector and his red headed daughter-'

'Daughter? I thought they were lovers?'

'They were at first, but since working on it this summer I realised the story was something else entirely. It began with Miss Barry's lady's maid, I just had to find a part for her, and then meeting Mr Keats -and Vincent-' she adds, blushing again. 'It was Charlottetown that did it. In a village like this it can feel like the only adventure open to a girl is finding a husband. But after spending that time in the city, living in it, the whole world opened up to me. I fit there, Gilbert. I've never really had that sense before, of fitting in. No one thought twice about some girl with a notebook and pencil, interviewing strangers. Maybe it was because they were strangers that I felt so -so _free_. I love my home, you know that I do, but Avonlea isn't just made up of green-leafed beauty and secret dells. It's made of Pyes and Gillis', Sloanes and Wrights. Inescapable divisions between those who lost everything when the bank collapsed and those that didn't, those who go to your mother and those who go to Dr Spencer, those who go to Lawsons and those who go to Blairs. I realised how hungry I was for a place that was more than that. I- I...'

Anne's not of this world anymore. Her pale hands are tented heavenward, her wide eyes soft with dreams. One more word and Gilbert is sure she will float off into another realm. If he pulls her down it is only because he knows Marilla is waiting. He unlatches the gate and leads her through.

'So your plan is to stay at Green Gables and write?'

'I wouldn't go so far as to call it a plan, more an opportunity. I have some savings from teaching, we'll live off that and the money we make from the lease and I'll write. Stories, lots of them, about urchins and orphans and runaways and sea captains and dancing maids and electric plum trees and shipwrecks and mixed identities and lovers quarrels and meddling mistresses-'

'Shakespeare then?'

Anne laughs again. 'Well it's been three hundred years, surely it's time the world had another. A woman this time. Didn't I say I wanted to write a play, or should that be the other wright?'

'You'll do it, too,' he says, admiringly.

Gilbert isn't the only one to think so. On Saturday Anne reads out the newspaper obituaries to Marilla and takes a peek at 'Gleanings from the Local Pen'. The peek is from habit, Marilla still has her eyes bandaged. But her opinion of the fiction section in the Echo is well known to Anne and firmly expressed as either 'flowery drivel' or 'godless poppycock'. Neither phrase passes Marilla's lips when Anne makes her stupifying discovery. For there, next to Charlotte E. Morgan's, _The Way It Often Happens_ and the final instalment of L. Lewis', _The Prince Comes Back to_ _the Enchanted Palace,_ is the first chapter of Anne's story. Mr Oliver hadn't even told her, nor did he intend to. Miss Shirley's little tale is now the property of his paper, though he did run the line, "from one of our promising new writers".

It doesn't take long for the news to spread. By midday everyone has forgotten about the surprising appointment of Charlie Sloane to the Avonlea school two weeks before school starts, much to Charlie's annoyance.

He has called an 'emergency meeting' of all former and existing members of AVIS, aka 'the Avettes', to discuss the scandalous state of the schoolhouse. No one wants to go but it is simpler to turn up than not. To disappoint a Sloane means half the village works against you until they find something else to sulk about.

The afternoon air is thick with rain that won't fall, and drowsing, fat mosquitoes. The Avonlea youth sprawl in the shade of the spruce grove behind the school, fanning themselves with back sections of the Echo.

'I say,' Charlie shouts, 'put those down!' He glares at Anne as he says it, as if she had lowered the tone of the village by daring to have her story published in such a rag.

Anne leans in close to Gibert's ear, she would very much like to take his bronzed lobe in her mouth. Instead she whispers, 'I forgot one other division in Avonlea. Those who read the Echo and those who read the Gazette.'

'They're all reading the Echo today,' says Gilbert, hoarsely.

Gertie sits behind them and nudges Anne's bottom with her foot. 'The Inspector's Daughter?' she says. 'Not much of a title, Anne.

'You're jesting aren't you? It's a perfect description of what the story is about,' says Diana, giving Anne a consolatory pat, and then ruining it by adding, 'The title was one of the best bits.'

'You mean the worst,' says Ruby. 'Oh Anne, you should have called it,' -here her slender arms gesture, dramatically- 'The Temptation of Scarlet Moondaughter!'

'Which brings me to the worst part of the story,' Jane cuts in, 'why ever did you use all those highfalutin names?'

'Well, if it's good enough for Hardy-' Anne says.

'Trust _you_ to compare yourself to Hardy.' Josie this time.

'When's the next part coming out, Anne?'

'Who's Vincenzo Byron?'

'Or the mysterious Reuben Rackstraw?'

'When you're quite finished!' barks Charlie. He leaves the podium he had the hired man make up for him this morning, and struts into the sweaty masses, grabbing a newspaper as he goes and striking his younger cousin on the head. 'This is an emergency. I am due to begin work in twelve days and what do I find? This peeling edifice!' he exclaims, pointing to the little grey school house. 'How can we expect my charges to take pride in their school when it looks like this?'

'You see why I preferred the outdoor school,' Anne mutters.

'And _you'll_ see what the School Inspector says when he arrives here next week. Oh yes, he knows all about the disgraceful state you let our beloved school get into, Miss Shirley -or should that be Miss _Shoddy?'_

Charlie had been waiting to use that line for a good long while and looks at Anne with a glib satisfaction. Anyone could have predicted what happened next. Gilbert and Fred suck in their breath. The rest of the group fall silent as Anne rises to her feet and plants her hands on her hips. Ol' Sloane is for it now.

'The ramshackle state of the school is not due to me, Charlie, it is due to the school board. A board made up of Sloanes!'

'Excuse _me_ ,' says Josie. 'My _father_ is on the school board. _And_ my uncle.'

'And mine,' says Jane. 'Two of mine, actually.'

'And my _brother_ ,' says Newt Sloane.

'And my _uncle_ ,' says Bulger Sloane

'Your uncle is my brother, you dimwit!'

'Point is,' says Bulger, ' _she_ thinks it's our folks' fault the school is the way it is.'

'I don't _think_ it,' Anne cries, 'I know it! I applied I don't know how many times for funding to paint the school, to replace the roof, and was always told no-'

'That wasn't the board's fault,' says Charlie smugly. 'Half the families never paid their tithes-'

'Tithes? This isn't mediaeval England, Sloane,' says Gilbert, he stands up behind Anne, and so does Fred and so does Rob.

'Well, whatever it's called- fees, tuition- the point is half the pupils weren't paying their share!'

'That's because half the families nearly lost their homes when the bank collapsed last year!' Fred barks.

'Which is why I summoned you here,' Charlie retorts. 'I think it's only fair that families like _yours_ be the ones to fix up this wreck of a building-'

'Families like _mine?_ ' says Rob, rubbing his fist.

'What's that supposed to mean?' says Joe, standing up and pulling his sister up with him.

'It means,' Fred cuts in, 'if you want something done in this town, call a Wright. But if you're looking for someone to crow about it call a Sloane!'

'Or a Pye,' says Laura, joining her cousin.

'Or an Andrews,' says Dwight.

'Dwight, you nincompoop you are an Andrews!' says Billy, trying to tug his cousin down.

'Only because Ma married one. I'm a Bell same as Pa was.'

'And I'm a Boulter,' says the lad next to him, 'and _you_ Bells never paid _your_ share of the boundary fence-'

'And _you_ Boulters are so mean you sold that burned down house to that Rossi simpleton-'

Before Anne has had time to react Gilbert grasps her arms and holds them tight.

'Let me go, Gilbert-' she hisses.

'You better listen to her, Gil, I tried the same thing once and she nearly broke my finger-' says Charlie.

He looks at Anne and shakes his head with a delicious satisfaction, that is until Gilbert lets her go. Charlie goes an odd shade of purple. His brown eyes bug out more than ever, uncertain if he is more afraid of an untethered Anne or an unshielded Gilbert.

Later Gilbert will say he was trying to avoid a debate on Martin Rossi's intellect, but everyone knows he was defending Anne. Most young folk had been wondering whether they were courting -well, she was an odd choice, Gilbert Blythe could have anyone- and the punch to Charlie's nose confirms it. Though there were so many fists flying by that stage it's possible Sam Jr got in first.

At Prayer Meeting the following week it is decreed that all guilty parties give up the following Saturday to repair the school house. The girls are bundled off to Mrs Lynde's to embroider some suitably forbidding lines from the Bible to grace the schoolhouse walls. The boys are made to paint. Abner Sloane provides it, he has a shed full of the stuff. The Prince Edward Island Presbyterian Gravediggers Society have been sending him two cans of white paint every year for the past sixteen years.

Once Charlie delivers it he considers his part of the punishment done, and is about to leave when Billy opens up the first can. The stench hits them first, the old paint has gone fetid and reeks of bad eggs causing every person within a twenty foot radius to retch. At first the Sloane side assume this is due to the Wrights. Rob is apprenticed to the blacksmith and has access to sulphur which is just what the air tastes of now. The Wrights put it down to the Sloanes; this was their way of getting out of an honest day's work by providing unusable paint.

Fred and Gilbert hold their handkerchiefs over their noses and peer into the offending can. It's supposed to be white but what they see is an oily almost peacock blue. They shuffle off and scratch their heads.

'Can't be right,' says Gilbert, 'there's no way the Board would want to paint the school house the same colour as a wheelbarrow.'

Fred shrugs, half-heartedly. 'Pyes might not, but Sloanes sure would. Every family here has a can of that paint in their barn. Anything to save a dollar, that's a Sloane.'

'Well I'm not using their rotten paint,' says Ephraim, joining them. 'We all got paint like that. I say we go home and fetch _our_ cans. Let those _Gazette readers_ suffer the stench.'

'We'll still smell it, you dolt, even if we don't use it.'

'Sam's right,' Gilbert nods. 'We should get out of here-'

'What? No- Gil. I'm not having that lot lord it over us that we shirked our punishment-'

'I'm not suggesting that. The Elders agreed we should repaint the school house on Saturday, they never said what time on Saturday. So, who's up for a little night time painting? We could meet here after sundown, say nine, with our own blue paint and finish our half of the building. If enough of us turn up we should be done by midnight-'

'Won't it need an undercoat?'

'Not if we're using the blue,' Fred says, his eyes lighting up. 'It's made for protecting farm equipment, should go straight on. I say we do it!'

And that's how Avonlea school came to be painted two different colours two days before the school inspector was due. Anne goes to church the next morning expecting more congratulations about her story, instead she has a taste of what Charlie endured. No one cares about Scarlet Moondaughter now, all anyone can talk about is the state of the school house. Charlie has a fit of nerves and vomits right in the Sloane pew. The minister calls the service short and soon a parade of disgruntled parents and nervous boys march over to the school. The front and back are painted white and vaguely reek of eggs. The east and west walls are painted in various shades of light blue, depending on how thoroughly the boy stirred his can of paint. Some patches are bird's egg, some turquoise. The effect is like a badly made quilt, but all anyone can say is why _blue?_

'And?' Anne asks, next morning, 'why _was_ it blue?'

'Because we thought their paint was blue,' says Gilbert, shaking his head. 'It turns out the white pigment had sunk to the bottom of the cans. Once Sloane and co gave them a good stirring the colour came good again. We saw the white walls when we came back but assumed they'd done an undercoat. If we'd worked together like we were supposed to this never would have happened. I won't feel right until it's fixed and I know the fellow to fix it. I just hope this horse of yours gets me to the station before the train leaves.'

Anne shakes her reins but Finnicky is too absorbed in the Chester Ross' apple tree. 'If it makes you feel any better I spent three hours embroidering Deuteronomy 22 instead of Deuteronomy 21-'

'Uh, it's been a while since Sunday school. What's the difference exactly?'

'The latter is to do with being put to death for shaming your parents. The former concerns your brother's ass.'

This should have elicted another laugh but they drive on silently. The cool change arrived in the night and with it the rain, and the morning air feels soft and fresh as skin after bathing in a stream. If that is the image that comes to mind it's because they are both remembering it; any fleeting touch between them almost causes them to yelp. Gilbert plucks a leaf from one of the Avenue cherry trees and clears this throat. Hearing this Finnicky decides to bolt, and delivers Gilbert to the station with ten minutes to spare. There is no one there at eleven o'clock on a Monday morning, most people going to White Sands take the earlier train. The conductor sits in a small patch of sun with his boots on a crate and catches a late morning snooze.

It's not like Anne to head to the waiting room, not like Gilbert to suggest it. Yet they find their way there, wordless and throbbing, till the dim room beats like a heart. Anne regards him for a moment, her full lips parting slowly. He can feel her studying him and looks up steadily, with eyes hot and unyielding.

'Your shirt is too light for this weather,' she murmurs.

That's all it takes. A week of smouldering glances and one buggy ride, and they are back where they yearn to be; tangled up together, pressed hard against each other's mouths. Just like that stream, they have to come up for air sometime. They pull away breathless, though no longer wordless.

'I shouldn't have said that -I'm sorry-' Anne gasps.

'I'm not-' Gilbert is ready to say more but the look of alarm on Anne's face causes him to stop.

'Ahem... I say, ahem!' says a pompous voice behind him.

Gilbert turns and instinctively places himself in front of Anne, but it's too late. The man before him would know _that_ hair anywhere.

'Miss Shirley,' he says, drawing her name out slowly.

Gilbert starts, and looks confused. 'Anne, do you know this gentleman?'

Anne peeps from behind Gilbert's shoulder and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Him _here?_ But of course, she knew he was coming! Her eyes dart between one man and the other as she struggles to think of something to say. Her mouth goes dry, she tries to swallow but she can't. Say something, _anything,_ she pleads with herself. Then she stands up straight and blurts out, brightly, 'This is Mr Harrison, the deputy school inspector. Mr Harrison, allow me to introduce you to my dear friend- Charlie Sloane.'

 **...**

 _*Charlotte E. Morgan and L. Lewis are characters from Anne of Avonlea, the stories those women wrote are chapter titles from the same book._

Thank you again for your reviews, and especially for your follows. After I made it to 50 I thought that would be it. 54 is like whoa! Oh yes, to dear Ms McFishie, the prize I received was a bottle of pure Canadian maple syrup. My boy has a wicked sense of humour.


	32. Myriads of rivulets

'You did _what?'_

'Which part is confusing to you, the bit where I lied about Gilbert's identity or the bit where I pretended Charlie was my beau?'

Diana bursts out laughing; the white swing seat on the porch of Orchard Slope rocks with her movement. 'I never, _never_ , thought I'd hear you say those words,' she utters between giggles. 'Charlie Sloane, _your_ beau! Oof, my sides! You'll have to come upstairs and loosen my corset in a minute. Oh, darling... who will do that for me when I go?'

'Perhaps no one at Queens will make you laugh as hard as I do?'

Anne means to sound lighthearted but neither of them are smiling now. The first term at Queens begins next week and Aunt Josephine has ordered her niece back to Everleigh by Wednesday so that she may be fitted for new suits and hats.

'What _am_ I going to do?' Diana laments. 'I won't have anyone at Queens, let alone a bosom friend.'

Anne extracts her hand and tweaks her friend's nose. 'You are going to discover a little discussed but very comforting truth: that the person doing the leaving never misses anyone half as much as the person left behind.'

'Hmmm,' says Diana, unimpressed. 'I learned that the last time I left home. How many times did I screw up the letter I was writing when I realised it sounded like I was having too much fun-'

'You goose! Fred wants you to be happy-'

'I suppose _you'll_ be just as happy reading about Gil at all those Redmond Balls... with all those co-eds.'

'We never promised to be true to each other,' Anne says, stiffly.

Diana's dark eyes narrow. 'What _did_ you promise?'

'Things we knew we couldn't keep,' is Anne's reply. 'But I'm not sorry, Di, truly I'm not. I shall look back on these months with nothing but gladness. Every girl needs a summer romance, at least that's what all the novelists say.'

'You're practically one already... Oh Anne, do you think you might put _me_ in one of your stories?' Diana pleads.

'Not you, too,' Anne protests. Her face twists into a grimace, but she's not half as annoyed as she pretends to be. 'Do you know, Diana, I believe I have discovered another division in our fair village?' she says, slipping from the porch rail and plopping down next to her friend. 'Those who want to feature in my story and those who think they are already in it!'

That particular fault line has spread far beyond Avonlea. When Anne drove home from the station yesterday she did so with a very silly grin on her face. This was mainly due to the toe-curling kiss Gilbert had given her before he dashed for the train, but there was another surprise that held its own unique pleasure. Anne had been asked for her autograph from none other than Mr James A. Harrison.

After shaking both their hands Mr Harrison had dipped into his briefcase and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper containing the first installment of Anne's story. Anne could not have been more astonished if the man had fallen on one knee and asked her to marry him.

'Might I be so bold as to ask you to sign it, Miss Shirley?' he said. Without waiting for an answer he shepherded them outside to where the light was better. 'The moment I read it I _knew..._ ' he continued, savouring the scene. 'The tempestuous red headed girl... her doting Papa, the Inspector. Oh yes, I understood your meaning. You saw me as a father, didn't you, young lady? And I failed you in your hour of need, when you were wanting my guidance- my protection-'

'Mr Harrison, I-'

Anne was stopped short by Gilbert's boot lightly nudging her ankle. She looked at his face, one that could barely contain the laugh within as he made the merest shake of his head. Fortunately Mr Harrison was not the sort to stop talking once he had started. He had been planning to pay a visit to Miss Shirley after his inspection and had practiced his speech over and over on the train from Summerside this morning. He was making use of the mirror in the station outhouse when Anne and Gilbert appeared. The greasy smell of hair pomade seeped into the air as he removed his hat and clutched at it.

'I submitted to the demands of the Board and gave your job to another,' Mr Harrison recited. He then turned briefly to Gilbert. 'No offense, young Sloane, but you have some very- erm- _determined_ folk in your family,' -Anne nudged Gilbert's ankle that time- 'and yet, Miss Shirley, you found it in your heart to write me... a masterpiece-'

'Mr Harrison, I would hardly call it-'

'Ah!' said James A. tapping his bulbous nose. 'Modesty, yes. Though I'm sure this young buck knows you for the firebrand you really are, eh? You see what I did there? Fire? Red?' There were no words to describe the appalled looks on the buck and the firebrand's faces. Not that it mattered, James A. Harrison was feeling about for his fountain pen. 'Now if you wouldn't mind addressing it to my _dear_ Mr Harrison...'

After that it was easy. Gilbert as Charlie told the Deputy Inspector they had come especially to Bright River to inform him the school was being painted and would he please defer his inspection until the following week. This suited James A. who assumed he would have the privilege of Anne's company on the incoming train to White Sands. It was Gilbert who suffered that fate, but not before he gave Anne a goodbye kiss.

'I see why you were so eager to make way for the Sloane boy,' said Mr Harrison, raising his wirey brows. 'A filly like you needs a good master, what!'

Such words should have left her wanting to tear his masterpiece to shreds, instead Anne thinks about her signature all the way home. Upon returning from a night at Orchard Slope she immediately begins to practice the most stylish way to write her name. She supposed to be writing out recipes. Mrs Lynde and her nephew from Sweden have come to Green Gables for the afternoon; Soren to admire the prettiest spot in all Avonlea, Rachel with more seasonal meal suggestions for Anne to copy into her 'hundred page book.' When the front door sounds with a scrupulous knock Anne jumps up gladly, only to find Josie and Charlie standing on her porch.

Sloanes and Pyes have an uneasy alliance, and these two eye each other, suspiciously, unwilling to acknowledge Anne until they have ferreted out what it is the other intends to say. For one whole minute they argue over who should speak first. Anne goes inside to scrub the ink from her fingers and returns to find them still bickering. In the end Josie's vanity wins, because refusing to defer to 'ladies first' would insinuate she isn't one.

'Fine, fine. So Anne, I come here today because I wanted you to hear it from me _-_ ' Josie pauses, waiting for some clever remark. Anne is so bored by this stage she yawns. 'Right- well...' -a short, shallow breath- 'I have decided to return to Queens -to complete my second year. I just wanted you to know that is has _nothing_ to do with-'

'Diana!' Anne cuts in, excitedly. 'Oh, you're doing this for Diana! Oh Josie, you- you-' Words fail Anne for a moment. She can hardly call Josie an angel. But then why not? She looks like a chubby little cupid in her peach coloured silk and that fussy feather boa in a halo round her parasol. Anne dives from the steps and clutches her briefly; she has never been this close to Josie before. She smells of expensive perfume, musky and pungent.

Josie remains stiff, what's left of her plucked brows crumpling in confusion. She had expected Anne to throw one of her temper tantrums not be thrust against her pointy little chest. She shrinks back quickly, but there is an undeniable lift in the corners of her mouth. 'Of course you'd put this down to Diana, but it has _nothing_ to do with her. The fact that she is going to Queens is merely a coincidence.'

Anne nods in exaggerated fashion. She is about tap her nose the way James A. did, then thinks better of it. 'No- no, of course this isn't about Diana, I'm just relieved for her, that's all.'

'Relieved?' says Josie.

'You know what cats there are at Queens, Josie.' Josie should know, she was the worst of them. 'Who better to look out for my Diana -I mean _our_ Diana,' Anne says.

Josie is the image of her mother at this point: unsure whether Anne is making fun of her or not -which is just how Anne likes it.

'When you've finished babbling on about Diana Barry might I get a word in edgewise?' says Charlie, and clears his throat as though he was about to recite a poem. 'I've been instructed to thank you,' he announces. 'I was told it was you who managed the Chief School Inspector and asked him to come at a more convenient time.'

'It was the Deputy Inspector, but yes-'

'Deputy?' Charlie huffs, 'I expected the _Chief_ Inspector. Gilbert got visits from the Chief, not some Deputy!'

'You really are an idiot,' says Josie, shaking her head.

Charlie goes that nasty shade of purple again. Josie folds up her parasol. Anne knows what that means and backs away slowly. Even with the door closed she can hear them laying into each other.

'You only got that job because your _daddy_ got it for you-'

'And you're going back to Queens because no one in Avonlea can _bear_ you-'

'Wouldn't surprise me if they marry one day,' says Marilla, coming up behind Anne. She had been in the back garden showing Soren her prize pumpkin. The smell of roses lingers in her hair.

'Well what do they say?' says Rachel, squeezing in between them. 'Fighting in the school house means marriage in the church house.'

Anne chuckles. 'Who's _they?_ I've never heard that before.'

'It's a Swedish phrase,' Rachel says, as though it was common knowledge. 'Though one needn't be Swedish for it to be true. I don't see that our school houses are so very different to theirs.'

'That's not what I heard, Moster,' says Soren. 'Miss Cuthbert was telling me there is a school in Avonlea painted to look like patchwork.'

'Marilla you didn't?' Rachel splutters. _'My_ Soren comes all the way from Trintorp with billberries for _your_ garden and you go and tell him that! Why Gilbert Blythe swore to me, _swore_ mind, he would have that unsightly mess fixed by the time school starts. Got some old pupil of his to do it cheap. Poor boy's down on his luck by sounds. Living in one of those caves in the cliffs at White Sands like some no good smuggler.'

'He couldn't be very old then?' says Marilla.

'Old enough to hold a paint brush is old enough for me, so long as it's done before school starts.' Thus spake Rachel Lynde, and no one, not even Marilla, dared say another word on the subject.

Later, when Soren's had his fill of barrel-sized pumpkins, he asks Anne if she will take him to see this patchwork school house. Anne is curious herself, and as Rachel and Marilla enter another debate about when the latter intends to take those bandages off, she takes Soren's arm and leads him out of the house.

It's good for the soul to walk old paths with new eyes, though Soren Blomqvist -a willowy young man with pitted cheeks and a lucid green gaze that hints he would be much better company were he talking in Swedish- will keep saying how much Avonlea looks like home. Instead of being disappointed that this exotic visitor in not in raptures about her hometown, Anne strolls to the school house imagining herself in some grand archipelago on the Baltic Sea. She doesn't have to go anywhere she tells herself, not when she can dream herself away. And she breathes in deep, conjuring a brisk salty air, though the one that comes is edged with coal and the plummy scent of blossom.

They are entering the Birch Path when they spot Dora near a myrtle. All it takes is Soren asking about the berries in her basket and the thunderbolt strikes. Anne certainly believes in love at first sight, she's even tried to write about it, and devoured every account in her favourite novels. But to see it first hand, to see them fall so fast and true leaves Anne speechless. Which is just as well as Dora is saying enough for all of them.

'Don't you have thimbleberries where you come from? They are finer than a raspberry, more astringent too. But it is not only the fruit that is useful. The leaves when dried are good for burns. Fresh ones are good for spots-'

Soren brings his hands to his cheeks. 'I wish I had known that when I was younger.'

'I didn't always know,' says Dora, 'Mrs Blythe is teaching me. She gave me a kitten.'

'I like cats,' says Soren, 'Moster Rachel does not like cats- Aunt Rachel, I mean to say. May I carry your basket for you? Can you tell me what this plant is please?'

'I -ah, we were on our way to the school house,' says Anne, trying not to sound amazed.

'Gilbert is there,' Dora replies, her sky-blue eyes on Soren. 'He told me he was going to check on the painting.'

A curious sensation takes hold of Anne as she continues alone down the path, as though she is disappearing. She half expects the red earth she walks on to show beneath her slippers. Anne used to dream of becoming invisible, nothing could hold her then. She could escape at will, go anywhere; climb the highest church spire, stay out till midnight under the stars... She remembers what Mr Oliver said about her talent for getting into places she shouldn't. She would have liked that sort of work. No, not liked, she would have relished it- grown- _come alive_. The tiniest taste made her hungry for more. Anne knows if it was the other way round, if Gilbert had to stay while she was given the chance to leave, then she would go. Either way it's going to hurt, but she is used to that. Nothing stays, but what Anne is discovering is that something or someone will come in its place whether she wants it or not. After that it's up to her; to cling to what used to be, or to open her heart and live.

'Hello Anne,' says Gilbert.

He strides to the school gate and touches her cheek, leaving a smudge of white paint. Anne brings his wrist to her mouth, kissing his sun warmed skin.

'I want you to know that I love you, Gilbert. You know that, don't you? I don't want you leaving without knowing that.'

There is a moment when Gilbert forgets to exhale. One minute he is painting a window ledge, the next this red haired dryad appears on the last Tuesday of August to tell him she loves him. He nods vaguely, struggling to put some words together, because only now in this small and very ordinary moment does he admit to himself that he knows.

'I did -I mean I do, I just assumed we weren't ever going to say the words...'

He scratches his head and leaves a little patch of white by his ear. Anne has a sudden image of what he would look like as an old man and wishes she could be the woman who would grow old with him.

'You don't have to. I just want you to know that I loved you as hard as I could for as long as I had you and I don't regret any of it-'

'Anne, I'm going to Redmond not the moon,' he says, gruffly, aware of the boy working on the porch; all those Take Notices disappearing under so much paint. 'I- I want to ask you something too, but not here, not at the school house. Come,' He wipes his hands on his overalls and lifts her over the gate. 'Let me show you what we've done.'

The painter sees them coming and scoots to the side of the building.

'Red's a little leery of strangers.'

'How old is he?' Anne asks, watching him clean his brush.

'Why do you want to know?'

'You only said you knew someone in White Sands in need of a job, you never said he was a pupil of yours.'

'I told Rachel that because I didn't want her prying. Though he is a pupil, just not in the way you're thinking. I taught him how to cook a few meals, even sew a little. You should meet him, really. It's only right he meets his teacher's teacher, don't you think?' says Gilbert, winking. 'Say Red,' he calls to the boy, 'come over and meet Miss Shirley!'

The boy stands up and dries his hands on his neatly patched trousers. He looks about seventeen, with sky-blue eyes and a crooked smile that reveals a wide gap between his two front teeth. 'Pleased to meet you,' he says, offering a calloused hand. 'Name's Red.'

 _Red_ , Anne thinks. Rossi means red. She shakes his hand then turns on her heel. 'I-I've got to go- I just remembered- I- ah, I left something on the Birch Path-'

'I can come with you, if you like,' says Gilbert, 'Red can finish up-'

'No!' Anne utters, then catches herself. 'I mean, no, it's no bother. You stay here, with Red. Stay. With him. The two of you.'

'I think we've got it,' says Gilbert, slowly.

Anne dashes to the gate and scales it in one leap. The boy rubs his chin with bemusement.

'She always like that?' he says, watching her sprint down the road.

'Yeah,' says Gilbert, grinning wildly. 'Isn't she magnificent?'

 **...**

 _* the actual Swedish phrase is: 'Kärlek börjar alltid med bråk' which translates as 'Love always starts with a fight.'  
_

 _*moster is the Swedish term for a maternal aunt. The paternal is faster, which is also cool, but I liked moster better because it sounds like monster and that's kinda funny._


	33. Hurrying thro'

Davy Rossi left Tignish in the New Year after spotting his likeness on a wanted sign on coach house wall. Like his father he had never learned to read, but he knew very well what _wanted_ meant. Davy may have been a fine sailor but he was also a light-fingered lad; when he broke into Gilbert's boarding house it wasn't his first time.

After fleeing Tignish he discovered the storm that struck on New Year's Day had devastated much of the Island. No matter how things stood between him and his father, Davy had to know if his family had survived. On the second week of January he arrived in Carmody and stood before the collapsed ruins of his old house, in another man's coat and boots stuffed with newspaper, believing the worst. He shuffled off with little idea where he was going and was picked up by a tinker going to White Sands. It didn't take long for him to discover a likely cave, which he proceeded to furnish with the belongings of various White Sands residents -a cup here, a sack there- till he made himself something of a home.

Davy didn't dare look for work on the boats, not with that wanted sign hanging over his head, so he did what any boy with no job and no prospects does: fell in with a gang of bootleggers and thieves. That lot shifted off at the end of May and took Davy's possessions with them; which is why he broke into Gilbert's room and stole everything, from razor to chamber pot, including a beautiful blanket. He had been in two minds about taking it. Though Davy was an expert pickpocket he prided himself in taking only what he needed. But the blanket dazzled him -later he would say it bewitched him- and he used it to carry his booty away.

All Gilbert had to do was wait. Any creature, no matter how wild, will return if you leave some crumbs. Whoever stole his belongings wasn't looking to flee, they were setting up house. Gilbert was certain they would be back looking to rob him of the new things he bought to replace those that had been stolen, and spent the first week of June with his window wide open watching for the thief to slip in again.

On the day Anne met Mr Keats Gilbert met Davy Rossi, and an unlikely friendship was formed. Davy had no time for Gilbert's offers to help him learn to read, but he was tired of his diet of dried fish and stale bread. He wanted to know how to cook, how to care for his clothes so that he didn't look like a vagabond. When Gilbert told Anne it was good for a man to know how to care for himself, he was thinking of Davy Rossi.

'How like you to help him, Gil,' Anne says.

They are sitting in the doorway of the painted caravan. Davy, Dora and Martin are tucked inside their little house marvelling in the aliveness of the other. Anne has not spoken of the reward yet, she almost wishes she didn't have to. Sudden windfalls aren't always the blessings they seem; she is nervous of how the news might affect the Rossis' reunion.

When Anne first saw Red at the schoolhouse she was certain it was Davy. After scurrying to the nearest tree and taking a moment to catch her breath she decided to go to Dora. If Anne was mistaken about Red's identity Dora would bear that mistake with more composure than her father.

Dora had stood by the school gate and watched the boy paint for a minute, then she simply called out, 'Davy-boy!'

The embrace that followed needed some explaining, but neither Davy nor Dora could find the words and raced ahead toward the Rossi place while Anne, Gilbert and Soren walked behind. The latter found his way back to Green Gables, still holding onto Dora's basket, but the twins insisted Anne and Gilbert come with them. They hung back in the garden watching brother and sister walk hand in hand toward the house. Martin Rossi's whoops of joy streamed through the air like a sunrise.

'I won't lie,' Gilbert says, stretching his long legs down the wobbly caravan step. 'I was in two minds about it. That blanket means a lot to me. Not many people know this but my great-grandmother was one of the Island's first people-'

'Mmmm,' Anne says. She rests her head on his shoulder and kisses his lean, brown neck.

'I -ah... what I was saying...' Gilbert mutters, brushing his lips over her hair.

'Your great-grandmother.'

'Yes -so I... Well, at first I was furious with the fellow. The blanket is very valuable, I was sure he must have sold it. When I discovered that he didn't, I- I can't explain, I just knew I had to help him...'

As he speaks his hand slips down Anne's neck, over her breast, and nestles into her waist. Then his lips find hers; when Dora comes for Anne they are tangled in the doorway.

'You shouldn't do such things if you're not engaged.'

'Dora!' Anne exclaims, pulling herself up, 'I wasn't expecting to see you so soon.'

'You said you knew something else about my brother,' Dora says, pretending Gilbert isn't right in front of her buttoning up his shirt. 'Something you didn't want to mention until Father had seen him again-'

'Do you want to me come with you?' Gilbert asks, ignoring Dora right back.

Anne shakes her head and feels mortified as her hair comes loose from her bun. 'Better not,' she says, blushing, and hastens after Dora.

It takes a good long while, Anne is a storyteller after all. She sits them down, Davy perching on the hearth because the Rossis only have two chairs, and tells them about Diana's dream and Miss Barry, about Vincent and Mr Keats, and the melted swan Ball where they met the Admiral's wife who had scoured all Tignish with her husband, wanting to give a brave young man named Keith a reward.

Martin's smile is bittersweet when he hears this: Keith was the maiden name of his late wife. He is less impressed with the promise of a thousand dollars than he is with the knowledge it was his son who rescued those men in the storm. The surprise comes when Davy declares -the way only a seventeen year old would- that he doesn't want the Admiral's money, not a penny of it.

'But Davy, that money'd set you up for life- you could buy your own land-'

'Not this again,' Davy snarls, standing up. 'I don't to be a farmer, I want to be at sea. I want to join the Royal Navy and make an Admiral of myself- _'_

'Why didn't you?' Anne can't help ask.

'The Navy wants papers, I don't have papers, do I? If I can't prove who I am they won't have me. The Canadian Royal Navy is for proper gentlemen, not runaways,' he says, darkly.

'But you could get them now. The church at Carmody will have your records, your father can help you.'

'That's what we argued about in the first place,' Davy mutters.

'Well, we're not arguin' now,' Martin says. 'It near killed me to lose you once, I couldn't endure it again. I made a terrible mistake puttin' my dreams on your shoulders, Davy. I know I'm no farmer, I just wanted to make one of you. Don't think bad of me,' he says, turning to Anne, 'if you'd seen him when he was younger, the way he had with animals-'

'Sounds like Dora,' says Anne, watching the girl pet her kitten.

'So give it to Dora then,' Davy pleads, 'let her have the money. She deserves it more'n me. I only did what any man would do. Dora did what I couldn't. She saved _you,_ Dadda.'

Father and son hug while Anne looks for pen and paper -there isn't any- in order to write a letter to the Admiral. She is certain he will take Davy under his wing and make an Officer of him if that is the reward he desires.

Two weeks later Admiral Handscomb and his wife pay a visit. The Rossis are so overwhelmed they ask Anne to be there with them. The first thing the Admiral does is salute Davy, then he offers to pay his tuition at the Royal Military College in Ontario.

'Best get your reading up to scratch, young Rossi,' says the Admiral, glancing at Anne.

When that is done Mrs Handscomb reaches into her reticule and produces a money order for the smaller amount of five hundred dollars, which she hands to Martin.

'I know you Island folk are a proud lot, but take it, please. Money might be the root of all evil but by Jove it can do a little good. If you don't have need of it I'm sure you know someone who does. I trust you to do the right thing.'

Father and daughter look at each. Dora nods. Martin says, 'Marilla.'

Anne takes a step back and collides with the table. Martin Rossi has just been given a chance to make his dreams come true yet all he can think of is Marilla. Marilla, who hasn't seen Martin since they returned from hospital in Charlottetown six weeks ago. Anne knows Martin loves her, he had admitted that himself, but she had always thought it to be a sentimental, hopeless kind of love. Not like this. It dazzled her with its selflessness and certainty, for a moment she thought she would cry.

Mrs Handscomb brings out her little jar of smelling salts but Anne waves it away, telling them all she must go home. She sets out toward Avonlea bursting with gratitude; with this money they could pay off their debts and buy back the lease from the Barrys. But by the time Anne arrives at Green Gables she is bubbling with anger, because she knows there is no way Marilla will accept anything from Martin Rossi.

Anne finds her sitting on the front porch, sunning her bandaged face. Recognising the light step of her girl Marilla waves as Anne strides up the garden path.

'Back so soon,' she says, 'what was the Admiral like?'

Anne clutches at the porch post and swallows hard. 'When are you going to take those bandages off?'

Marilla sniffs and picks up the basin of peas by her feet. 'I knew it was only a matter of time before you chimed in,' she says. 'They'll come off when Dr Chowdury comes to take them off.'

'Dr Chowdury lives in Kensington, why don't you send for Dr Spencer?'

'Dr Spencer and Dr Blair have both informed me they think it's better I remain under the care of the specialist in Charlottetown.'

Anne groans and kicks the porch post. 'That's their pride talking -Mrs Blythe was right!'

'Mrs Blythe is _not_ a doctor,' says Marilla, severely. She begins shelling her peas. Her expert fingers pulling the stringy green threads from their pods.

Anne is this close to taking one and flinging it at her head. 'Then we'll go back to the hospital. Martin would help us, I know he would-'

'I am not going to the hospital without the Kingsport specialist. That place is run by folk not much older than you!'

'It's a teaching hospital, and it makes doctors and nurses just as fine as Redmond -or any university.'

'We'll see what Gilbert Blythe thinks when he's graduated shall we -see what school _he_ chooses-'

'And we'll see what his _mother_ says when I fetch her right now!'

'You wouldn't dare-' says Marilla rising to her feet.

'Wouldn't I!' Anne counters. 'You should have taken those bandages off weeks ago -do you know who you remind me of? _Me!_ When I refused to wear any colour except black for a whole year!'

'It isn't the same at all and it offends me to hear you say such a thing.'

'Isn't it? I wanted to stay in my blacks because I wanted to grieve Matthew's going forever. I was afraid to let go of my grief, just like you're afraid to see again.'

Marilla shrinks at Anne's words and slumps back into her chair. 'So this is what you think of me, is it? All these lovely evenings we had out here with you dreaming up your fancy stories, making me laugh again. And the whole time you've been vexed with me...'

In all the years she has witnessed Marilla's suffering Anne has never seen her come this close to self-pity. It shames Anne for a moment, then it frightens her. Marilla thought she was being strong by denying herself these last few weeks of sight. But really she was punishing herself, and self punishment only ever leads to bitterness. To let that happen would be to lose Marilla too.

Anne kneels down by Marilla's side and takes her hand. 'How could I have borne Diana and Gilbert's leaving if I didn't have you? I love you, Marilla, I _choose_ you. But _you_ have a choice, too-'

'What choice do I have?' Marilla says, brokenly. She removes her hand from Anne's and feels about for her handkerchief. 'I'm going to lose my sight in October, I might as well get used to it now. Do you think I could bear to see this old place, see your dear face, for so short a time?'

Anne lays her head on Marilla's lap and nods. 'I do. I think you would give anything to see your Green Gables again, to see me again. I think the reason you don't is because then you'd have to read that letter.'

Marilla begins to tremble. She assumed Anne had forgotten all about it and wants to -how she wants to- make some cutting remark. But the only thing that cuts in the jagged sob in her throat. 'I'm being ridiculous,' she says at last. 'But then _he's_ ridiculous, too. What is he thinking? I'm a penniless spinster -a blind one at that.'

'You _know_ how he feels?' Anne exclaims, pulling away in amazement.

'I may be an old maid but I know when a man is setting his cap, Anne Shirley.'

'Then why, _why_ won't you read his letter?'

'I don't have to open it to know what's in it.'

'You miss him, don't you?'

Marilla doesn't answer immediately, she twists her handkerchief in her hands then blows her nose. 'Not at first. At first I just resented him for making me miss him as much as I did. Now it's got so missing is all I feel.'

'Won't you see him?' Anne asks. 'He wants to see you, I'm certain you're all that he thinks of-'

'No I won't see him,' Marilla snaps. 'I know you think yourself a writer but you'll find out soon enough that real life doesn't work the way it does in books. I'm already a burden to you, I won't make a nursemaid of Martin, too-'

'You're not a burden -you're not!' Anne insists. 'As for Martin, if I hadn't seem him caring for you I never would have looked for his son, nor come to love Charlottetown as much as I do. I would have gone on like a good little scholar and done what I could to get my job back, never knowing there was another bend in the road-'

Marilla shakes her head. 'It won't work, Anne, I know full well your heart is set on Redmond.'

'Of course I want to go there... one day... but I would much rather pay my way as a journalist than as the Avonlea schoolmarm.'

'Oh Anne, when that Bank failed it robbed us of more than our savings...'

Anne isn't listening. She ducks into the hall and hangs her hat, it's impossible to run in that thing, then drops a quick kiss on Marilla's head. 'I'm going to fetch Mrs Blythe now,' she announces.

'You're _what?'_

'I said I would, and you know I never say a thing unless I mean it with all my heart.'

'Anne Shirley, you are not-'

'Hopefully I shan't be long. Mrs Blythe said she'd be working in the cottage today.'

And Anne is gone, sprinting up the path and down the drive before Marilla can stop her.

Rowena and Anne arrive half an hour later. Marilla has retreated to bed. Anne peers round her door; the room still has the grassy scent of camomile. She remembers how Marilla had lain her head upon Martin's chest; could hear his heartbeat too?

Rowena comes up a moment later. She had been boiling some water, and enters the bedroom with a business-like air, a basin in her hands. 'I won't do a thing unless you ask me to, Marilla,' she says, settling next to her. 'No doubt your girl could charm up the sun -I believe I've even seen her do it-' she jokes, winking at Anne, 'but it's you I came for.'

Marilla turns to face Rowena and smiles weakly. 'Thank you, Ro. I'm sorry we interrupted your work-'

'This _is_ my work,' says Rowena, patting her hand. 'If you knew how I longed to help you, John and I both. You needn't have depended on Martin like you did.'

'I didn't depend on him. Martin Rossi was a good friend to me,' says Marilla, and suddenly chuckles. 'I can just about see the look on your face, Ro Blythe. For all your queer ways I'm sure you never divined that.'

'Well, why don't you check -just to be sure,' she says, unwrapping the gauze from Marilla's head.

In half a minute she is unbound, then Rowena plunges a cloth in the basin and wrings it out. Anne is afraid to watch and stares at the steaming water; calyx and corolla orbiting the bowl as the scent of dried lavender perfumes the air. Rowena dampens the little wads of gauze pressed against Marilla's eyes and peels them away.

It's then that Anne remembers to shut the curtains which means her red hair is the first thing Marilla sees when she slowly opens her eyes. She winces uncertainly as familiar colours become familiar shapes, then she brings her hands to her mouth and gasps with grateful wonder. Anne turns at the sound and rushes to her, falling into her arms.

Rowena only just managed to stop the basin from flying. She busies herself mopping up the water and carries it to the dresser so that no one can see her tears. She is not really crying for Marilla, nor Anne, but because the work that she does means so much to her. The desire to heal has always burned in Rowena, yet she went to John and told him she would give it all up if only he would forgive her. In typical Blythe fashion John had said he didn't want a new wife -which is what he would have if she gave up such a big part of herself. He held her in his brawny arms and told her if she wanted to quit something she could quit blaming herself for Lottie, before adding, 'And that Ladies Meet, you know folks round here reckon you're running some sort of coven.'

Once her tears subside Rowena turns to find finds Anne and Marilla staring at each other as though each was an undiscovered land. Then Anne skips to the cherry-wood dresser and returns with a small blue envelope.

'Give me a moment, for pities sake, I don't even have my glasses.'

Anne reaches for the spectacles on top of the pot cupboard, thrusting them into Marilla's hand, before dashing downstairs with Mrs Blythe. With trembling hands Marilla tears open the envelope. She smooths the cheap paper against her knee, hoping then fearing she will be able to make out the words. She knows Martin's not much of a speller and is expecting to spend some time muddling it out. To her heart's relief Martin's meaning could not be clearer. In his childlike script she reads through teary eyes,

 _NO MATTER WHAT HAPPINS MARILLA CUTHBIT YOU WILL ALLWAYS HAVE MY HART._

 **...**

 _* calyx and corolla are parts of a flower_

 _* a coven is a group of witches_

 ** _..._**

Ah! The splendidness of tied up ends, I hope that was as satisfying for you as it was for me. If any of you are thinking, but what about Gilbert Blythe, what about what he wanted to say to Anne, don't worry I haven't forgotten.

In the spirit of happy endings and particularly the spirit of Anne of Avonlea this story will end with a wedding and then Anotherlea is done.

I can't wait to meet you there, I know many of you must think, 'Oh kwak, she's such an old hand at this nothing could surprise her now,' but I am genuinely moved that people in Israel, Iran, Antigua and Barbuda, Finland, Ghana, Ukraine, Vietnam, Chile and so many others (I want to list them all but I am afraid of looking like a show off) read, follow, fave and review Anotherlea! Every time I think of it it makes me want to cry. But I won't do that, I'll keep working hard to write my best work for my fearless and curious readers.

See you at the wedding!

love, k.


	34. The moan of doves

The next morning comes fierce and bright as Marilla's eyes. The green fog that once clouded them has gone, but a peculiar new symptom has taken its place. Now Marilla can see she wants to look at everything: her girl of course, and every inch of Green Gables. She clicks her tongue several times as she does this. The parlour curtains are a state, and the top of the grandfather clock, and the yard... Seven- eight- _twelve_ leaves are strewn all over it! Her hand itches for a broom but today is Sunday, so Marilla walks instead, once, twice, around the perimeter of the property, and up and down each row in the field. She comes in flushed and agitated at quarter to seven and starts to pace the kitchen floor.

Anne is on her second cup of tea, some of the rooibos Rowena left behind, and is sifting through the bible they way she does every Sunday since the operation. Marilla was reluctant to attend church with her face half bandaged. Mr Allen came to Green Gables instead, usually in time for afternoon tea, to tend to his wayward flock. Anne always looked forward to this, the Reverend is a cheerful, practical fellow with a rare gift of practicing what he preached. She knows his visits will come to an end now Marilla's sight is restored, and slams the heavy bible shut.

Marilla jumps. 'What was that?'

'It just occurred to me that Mr Allen won't be visiting today,' Anne says with bemusement; she's never known Marilla to be skittish before.

'I think he will,' says Marilla. 'I am no more inclined to be gawped at with my vision restored than I was when I was blind -less so in fact. I see no cause to go to church today.'

Anne is about to roll her eyes when she remembers Marilla can see her now. 'What would you like to do?'

Marilla taps her fingers on the tabletop and pretends to think on this. 'Stroll would do me good, I've been cooped up here so long-'

'Marilla, you must have walked five miles this morning-' Anne says, then notes the look on the older woman's face. 'Right, yes, a stroll, what a lovely idea. We could visit Matthew, or the school house, you haven't seen it since it was painted... nor the Rossi's new place...'

The impatient drumming ceases. Marilla raises her eyebrows and almost catches Anne's eye. 'What about the Rossis?' she says, coolly.

'The repairs they made to that burnt-out shack, they're all done now.'

Anne leaves the table and goes to the kitchen window. There is a cracked vase with verbena flowers on the sill -the sort of rustic display that is only allowed in the outhouse. She removes it quickly and peers into in a low cupboard to look for something more suitable. From the relative safety of its depths, she says, 'Of course they have _far_ more exciting news than that.'

That's as far as the teasing goes. Diana or Ruby, certainly Rachel, would have begged to know more. Marilla merely paces again. Anne knows better than to be discouraged, and dives into the tale of Davy Rossi while Marilla marches up the stairs, into her room, and before her open closet. She selects her dove grey worsted silk, the one she wore to Anne's recital at White Sands. Anne doesn't even try to hide her surprise.

'Well I don't want to look like some ragamuffin- any encounter will be that much smoother if I look my best- I'm sure all Avonlea knows I need a second operation- I won't have anyone pity me.'

Marilla goes pink as she says this, she knows she's babbling and barks at Anne to leave the room. Ten minutes later she is ready for their stroll. Stubborn woman that she is, she insists they set off in the opposite direction of the Rossi place. A good two hours pass before they reach Upper Carmody Road.

'We could visit the Sunrise Garden if you like?'

'Your pagan mountaintop,' Marilla says, dryly. She leans against a young birch, and mops her brow. 'Is there any water there? I'm that parched.'

'Not exactly,' Anne answers, 'but I know where we could get some on the way.'

The two women arrive at the Rossis just as the church bells signal the end of service, and are sitting in the shade of a linden tree when the Rossis arrive in their cart. Anne waves with heartfelt enthusiasm, Marilla less so. Dora has to take the reins from her father because he drops them in his lap.

'Dora, Anne, go to the house and put on the tea,' Martin mutters, urging the girls away as though a wolf had strayed onto the property.

'How do you do, Marilla,' Dora says. 'It's good to see y-'

Anne tugs her bonnet ribbon, hard. 'The tea!' she hisses, then almost laughs. To think they'd come a day when she, not Dora, was insisting on tea.

The girls go inside, one more reluctant than the other. Dora has seen her father endure a great many shocks in the last few weeks and is not sure he can survive another. But Marilla's visit appears to have worked a miracle upon him. When he enters the front door half an hour later he seems ten feet tall.

Dora darts outside to fetch Davy, who exits the caravan yawning and scratching his armpit. Anne goes to Marilla. She find her standing under the gold-green leaves of the linden tree. They reach for each other but the words won't come, so they smile and nod and laugh, whilst tears spill down their cheeks. If Martin seems taller, Marilla seems younger. Her hand flutters over her mouth and all she can say is, 'I'm half sure this is a dream.'

Then Martin appears by the backdoor and Anne melts away. She lurks in the shadow of the house where she and Gilbert once made mint tea, when Davy lopes toward her.

'So that's to be my new mother, is it?' He sounds annoyed but one glance at his face tells Anne he's rather tickled with the idea. 'I tell you, Miss Shirley, a fellow disappears for five years and this happens!'

Anne only half hears him. Davy is still in his longjohns. His sandy hair is tousled and dirty, his sunburned lips almost pout.

'S'pose that'll make you my sister, will it?'

He sounds annoyed again. Anne guesses that's just his way.

'I never thought,' she says, eyeing his patched up underwear. 'We should go in, don't you think? Dora will be waiting for us.'

She turns on her heel rather crisply and jogs back to the house. From the dim and poky kitchen she is sure she can hear Davy laugh.

The wedding is set for Christmas. Only the children know, though the rest of Avonlea can't help notice the marvellous change in Martin Rossi. Not only does he walk taller, he cuts his hair, throws away his ugly felt hat, and looks people in the eye. Folks no longer refer to him as the hired man or the simpleton, he is Mr Rossi, small holder, and grower of the finest Purple Pughs this side of Nova Scotia.

They assume the return of his son has brought about this change, and they are partly right. Not until Martin and Davy accompany Marilla to Charlottetown do tongues really begin to wag. Davy leaves them at the hospital and takes a ferry to the mainland in order to complete a six week course at Military College before beginning his naval training. Martin stays by Marilla's side. Anne was asked to go too, but someone needed to mind Green Gables -at least that's what Anne tells the well meaning types who insist on their right to know the goings on of Miss Shirley. The Barrys or Blythes would have kept an eye on the place, but it's easier to blame Dolly than admit the person Marilla needs most is Martin.

Anne gives them this time together and is glad to do it, though she is gladder still when Marilla comes home again. The tumour is gone. And the pain, and her sight. Marilla always said she would rather go blind than endure another headache and she was right. But then it was time she was right about something when she wasted so much time being wrong. It wasn't that she feared what others would say. Marilla rather enjoyed shocking the neighbourhood when she adopted Anne. It wasn't that Martin was poor, Marilla was little more than a smallholder herself. The fact was while she liked being needed she didn't like needing him back. There wasn't one good reason for her to do so. Martin was forgetful, shambling, scruffy. But then he never felt it beneath him to thread Marilla's needle, or finish her ironing, or churn her butter, or bring something tasty for the pot. In the days after her first operation she would sun her bandaged face and recall the night he tried to tempt her appetite. She had lain back on the kitchen sofa, a damp cloth over her eyes, and he spooned tiny slivers of hot buttered mushrooms into her mouth. Even now she cannot smell morels without a hot flush creeping up her neck.

Tonight Martin brings a braided rope of brown onions. He calls at Green Gables every evening, though the snows came early and he lost his horse to colic.

'Never mind,' he says, 'we can buy a dozen more-'

'And where will we put them?' Marilla says, chuckling, 'The Barrys hold our lease till spring.'

Martin grins with childlike delight. Never in his most cloth-headed dreams did he think Green Gables would one day be his home. That he should be the one who will restore it to its former glory makes him feel like a lad of twenty again.

On the long dark evenings of November and December Anne teaches him writing and reading. He turns up his nose at the childish books she offers, preferring to read aloud from Farmer's Friend. Whenever he does Marilla puts aside her knitting and listens to him; mundane articles on the best time to plant winter cabbage working on her the way a romantic ballad works on Anne. Soon after she and Dora retire to the kitchen to make cocoa. Some time after that the Rossis trudge home. Each night Anne climbs the stairs to bed with a bittersweet smile on her lips. Relishing how good it feels, how safe, to belong to this family. And how much it will hurt to leave.

On the 22nd of December the first bride of Green Gables is lead down the stairs by Dora and Anne. Martin waits for her in the parlour, his son resplendent in his scarlet coat and pillbox hat that is worn on such a jaunty angle it almost covers his ear. The Gillis' are there, and the Allens, John and Rowena, Rachel and Thomas, and Soren Blomqvist, who for reasons he keeps to himself (which are known by all) has yet to sail back to Sweden.

Marilla and Martin do not dance. Marilla never could and now that she has permanently lost her sight she isn't about to. After the ceremony she and Martin sit on the over stuffed chaise. Martin in his new high-buttoned morning coat and Marilla in his favourite dove grey worsted silk; their hands lost in the knubbly folds of her skirt. Marilla stares straight ahead. Martin spends most of the evening staring at his beloved new wife, stopping only to survey the scene and describe to Marilla what he is seeing.

When the chairs are pushed against the wall and the rug rolled away he bends in close to her ear and says, 'There's my Dora in one of Anne's bonny gowns. A deep fir green spangled with bitty stars. She's got her pretty flax hair in ringlets an' is pourin' out for Thomas Lynde without the merest hint of a wobble and- there! Mrs Lynde is noddin' with powerful satisfaction and pokin' poor Soren again. And there's your Anne in her turquoise gown lookin' like a river sprite. And my boy twirlin' her round the room. You can hear her heart, I reckon, beatin' hard between the fiddle strokes. John Blythe's quite the player. He's lookin' over at you now, Marilla, was this reel a favourite of yours? Be a shame when he has to leave in an hour and go collect his boy. Though no one else is dancin'- which is just as well, I'd say. Davy's flingin' Anne about like she was a rag doll in his hands.'

Anne's cheeks are as scarlet as Davy's coat when she emerges from the hot little parlour later that night. She is leaving with the Blythes. The Gillis house is crammed with visitors, the Andrews are away, and so are the Barrys. Ruby comes out with no cloak, giggling at the steam rising from her bare arms.

'Ooh, that Davy sure can dance!' she says, and twirls herself round the porch post. 'You _sure_ you don't mind me dancing with him, Anne?'

Her darling brows arch suggestively, but Anne knows better than to take offense. Ruby Gillis could put arsenic down a well and people would offer to hold her basket while she did it.

'Well if you don't I'm sure your sisters will,' she teases.

'Davy doesn't give a hoot for them. They're _old,'_ Ruby scoffs _._ She wrinkles her nose, but it isn't long till she falls into swoons again. 'Just fancy, a real life soldier-'

'A sailor-' Anne corrects.

'A redcoat! _And_ a hero! Is it true he saved _one hundred_ men from a sinking ship in the Arctic?'

'You'd have to ask him the particulars-' Anne says, her grey eyes twinkling.

'But he always says to ask _you-'_

 _'_ Ruby Rosalia Gillis! You come in here with no coat! Laws! You'll catch consumption next!'

'Oh Ma,' Ruby calls back, 'I'm saying goodbye to Anne-'

'Obey your mother,' says Marilla, from the doorway. Her cane finds Ruby's boot and she taps it. Ruby immediately shifts inside.

'Is there any girl you can't tame?' Anne says, wrapping her arms about the bride.

'Girls are the least of it,' Marilla says, 'I have a husband to manage now.'

'Hardly, _Mrs_ Rossi _,_ your husband worships the ground you walk on.'

'Speaking of which-' Marilla cuts in, 'did Davy shovel the path properly? I won't have our guests slipping in slush on my wedding day.'

'He did. He offered me his bed, too.' In lieu of a honeymoon the children are staying away for three nights so the couple may have Green Gables to themselves. 'But I promised Mrs Blythe I would stay with them.'

'Gilbert's coming back from Redmond tonight, isn't he?'

'That's right,' this from John, who approaches Anne and wraps her scarf around her neck. 'Don't want you catching cold either, Anne. I seem to recollect neither you nor Gil can be trusted in snow.'

He gives her the Blythe wink, then turns to face Marilla. A long time ago, when she wasn't much older than Anne, she used to be sweet on John Blythe. All these years later he still exudes handsome, from the tone of his voice, to his oak-like presence. But what was handsome compared to a man who knew his way round a goffering iron?

'Don't you worry, Mrs Rossi,' says John, 'I'll keep a good eye on 'em for you...'

He coughs then, embarrassed by his choice of words. As is Anne, who goes even redder. Marilla doesn't need to see to know the looks on both their faces. She wraps her arm around her girl and pats what she hopes is John's shoulder.

'Two eyes please,' she says to him, and breaks into joyful laughter.

...

* _Purple Pughs are potatoes. Nova Scotia is famed for them. There's a story which says their fondness for blue and purple potatoes lead to the nickname, Blue Nose._

 _* blind people knit by touch instead of sight._


	35. And murmuring

**I began this almost eight months ago by dedicating it to Julie, PelirrojaBiu and FKAJ, and all three have helped me along the way. So if you want to send some love don't review me send a thank you to them because I couldn't have done this without them -especially you, J. You are the midwife to this story.**

 **Yes, the girl I wrote this for is still reading it, pulling it apart, questioning it, hating it, loving it, and still talking to me!**

 **With love and gratitude to L.M.M. ~everything is hers, only this idea is mine.**

 **...**

When the sleigh pulls into Bright River station all Gilbert can see are a pair of grey eyes peeping out from a pile of blankets. His suitcase bounces atop bundled legs as he leaps in and takes the spot next to Anne. 'Hello in there!' he says, as though he saw her three days ago instead of three months ago.

Rowena is seated opposite and tosses a blanket over his head. 'And your mother, does she get a greeting?' she asks him.

'Seems I missed out, too,' John grumbles. He sits out in front. Usually Gilbert would take a seat by him and fight him for the reins. John shoots his wife a knowing look as the sleigh starts moving again.

Their son emerges from under the blanket, an irreverent look on his face. 'Evening Father, evening Mother. I say, it's jolly cold.'

' _Jolly_ cold?' his parents say together.

Gilbert shrugs, or rather the furs round his neck go up past his ears. 'That's how they speak in Kingsport. But don't worry, this Islander is holding his own.'

It hardly needs saying. Everyone knows he lead the Freshers to victory at Rush Week, and won a coveted place in the best fraternity; that he is captain of the football team and president of the Freshmen year. He's had other victories since then, topping the calculus exam, his unbeaten run in the debating team. But the one he savours most has nothing to do with college.

'I've got a job!'

'A job?' Rowena splutters. 'Why on earth did you get yourself a job? I saved that money so you'd focus on your studies, not be tied to some job -John _say_ something!'

'What's the job?' says John.

'At a paper. The Daily News-'

Up till this point Anne had been silent. Now the wedding is over she finally feels the weight of it and is tired, fragile, and relieved her nods are considered conversation. Gilbert's voice lulls her like a long bath after a day in the fields; she only just stops herself leaning her head on his shoulder. But that was before he mentioned The Daily News. For the rest of the journey they discuss it excitedly, and still haven't exhausted the topic when John falls asleep in his turquoise rocker. It's not until Rowena tugs him out of the room and into bed that Gilbert finally asks Anne what he's been longing to ask her all evening. He sits on the braided rug with his back against the leg of the daybed, the daybed Anne is half reclining on, and looks up at her with an earnest expression.

'So, have you thought about it?'

'I have, Gil, and the answer's the same.'

'But why -I've got a job now?'

'You're not paying my college tuition.'

'I never meant all of it, just the first year. You must have saved enough from teaching to pay for board, in time you might find work in Kingsport, too. Please Anne-' He puts his hand on hers. It's the first time they have touched without coats and gloves in the way, and it feels... Anne can't vouch for the way it feels to Gilbert -though his darkening eyes might hint at it- but Anne's heart begins to beat so fast she can hear a rushing sound -butterflies, blood?- pulsing in her ears. 'You'd adore it there,' Gilbert insists. 'Everywhere I go all I can think is Anne would love this. And you would, you were made for college life-'

'I was made for lots of things.'

'This can't be your final answer, not now Marilla's married and they have the money to restore Green Gables. There's no reason for you to stay, you've done your duty, it's your turn-'

'You're right, it is my turn. But I'm not going to Redmond-'

'You're not going back to teaching surely-'

'No-' Anne pauses and then in her light clear voice she says, 'Gilbert, I'm going to Charlottetown.'

'You mean the job at the Echo?' Anne nods. _'When?'_

'When am I going or when did I decide?'

'Both, neither, I dunno,' Gilbert mumbles.

He releases Anne's hand and slumps back against the bed. When Anne touches his shoulder she feels him flinch.

'Be happy for me, Gil, I have a chance to pay for college doing something that truly excites me.'

'I just assumed with Marilla settled you'd say yes,' he says, dully. 'I don't know why I'm surprised... you've never once done what I expected.'

Anne takes this moment to look at him. She didn't before because it was dark and they were covered in hats and blankets, and because Mrs Blythe was facing them both. His face is turned toward the stove and tiny flames from the grate cast golden light over his skin. In reality he is much paler than he usually is -the life of a scholar is an indoor pursuit- but tonight in his home he looks his lovely bronzed self. He's twenty now and looks it. There is still a layer of boyishness in his features: a jaw not quite square, feet that seem too big for his body. But there are other things about him, new things, that belong to the realm of manhood. His whiskers are darker and more numerous, though that may be because he's spent the best part of a day travelling and had no chance to shave. His hair is certainly different, parted on the side and slicked down with some sort of hair oil she's never smelled before. Even his toque couldn't muss it up, but then it's so much shorter there's not much hair to muss. Then there's the stiff high collar, which he unbuttons and tosses aside. His tie comes off next but this he keeps, wrapping it tight around his fingers, the tips of them darkening like tiny plums.

'I know that tie,' Anne says, gently. She sent it to him for his birthday as a half sort of joke. The fine pattern on the silk looks like bilberries.

'Mmm,' says Gilbert, studying his fingers.

They stay this way till Rowena comes back with quilts and pillows for Gilbert. They have a guest in the spare room, a young girl who could no longer disguise her pregnancy and was thrown out of home. Anne is to sleep in Gilbert's room, and Gilbert on the daybed in the covered porch. As soon as he sees his mother he remembers she told him to bank the fire and busies himself with the task.

'Well, goodnight-' Anne says, hopefully.

'Goodnight,' he says, without turning round.

'He's tired,' his mother whispers as they walk down the hall. There is a fire Gilbert's room, too, and the quilts have been turned down. Anne has a sudden remembrance of Everleigh and smiles. 'You're tired, too,' Rowena continues, touching Anne's cheek. 'A good night's sleep, that's what we all need.'

As usual Rowena Blythe is right. Anne finds Gilbert in the kitchen the next day heaping porridge down his throat. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees her and he quickly swallows. 'Morning Anne! Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I won't lie, I am- I _was_ disappointed, but I was also plain done in.' He grasps Anne's hand eagerly. 'Still friends?'

Anne can hardly contain her grin. 'Of course friends, Gil, I-'

'Good,' he cuts in, 'so... you up for some snowshoeing?'

Soon after they are heading toward the frozen stream. The air is crisp but not so cold that it stings. Anne had been wearing her green wool beret but after half an hour she pulls it off and stuffs it into the pocket of her cloak. She's wearing her hair in two simple braids and her cheeks have the blush of a ripening apple. While Anne thought Gilbert much older, Gilbert is struck by how young she looks. He keeps wanting to offer her his arm because he walks so much faster than she does. This is because he wears trousers not two woollen skirts, the bottom third of which are heavy with snow. When he turns back to offer his hand again Anne laughs at him.

'You've been in the city too long. You can't hold hands _and_ snowshoe. Or is it,' here she stops and cocks her head, 'you're so used to offering your arm to young ladies it's become a habit?'

'They're bluestockings, most of them,' Gilbert says, dryly. 'Offering your arm without being asked gets you an umbrella to the head-'

'They do _not_ -' Anne gasps.

'Well not quite. I've made a few chums.'

There were many others who would appreciate his acquaintance, but Gilbert doesn't mention them. He doesn't care for their attention, he cares for the girl beside him. It occurs to him that he hasn't asked more about her move to Charlottetown. He remedies this immediately, as well as the length of his stride, and they walk together, him asking questions, her answering them, until they reach troll rock.

'Of course Diana wants me to live with her but Everleigh is miles away. So Mr Keats found me a little room in a boarding house run by a captain's widow. Oh Gilbert, it has a view of the sea! It costs a little more than I hoped, but then everything costs more in the city. I admit it will be a squeeze on a cadet's wage but only until I'm qualified. They say it takes six months but I aim to make it in three-'

'Meaning you'll do it in one,' Gilbert adds.

Anne gives him a cheeky smile. 'I start at the Echo on the 29th-'

'Of December _?'_

'Yes. It surprised me too. But the way Mr Oliver worded his letter I got the impression if I didn't agree he wouldn't make the offer again.'

'Oh, I think he would,' says Gilbert, 'he knows a good thing when he sees it. I just never thought you'd leave Green Gables so soon after the wedding. The way you write about your new family- you sound so happy, Anne.'

'I am happy. But Martin and Marilla have each other now, and Dora will be there-'

'Yes, I know. Mother's taken her under her wing as a sort of apprentice. I hear Rachel's nephew is thinking of buying the Rossi place.'

'I didn't know that! Well! _Two_ new bachelors for the neighbourhood!.'

'Hmm,' says Gilbert, crossing his arms, 'I've heard all about Davy Rossi and his _dashing red coat_ -from Ruby,' he adds, grimacing.

'Don't worry, Gil,' Anne jokes, 'perhaps once you've graduated you can make ship's surgeon.'

'I might at that,' he says, teasingly. In the next instant he is serious again. 'But I won't. If you don't come to Redmond Anne, if you're still in Charlottetown when I graduate, then I'm going to apply to the teaching hospital and do my medical training there.'

'We'll see,' Anne says. She pulls her beret over her head and digs her hands in her pockets. 'Four years is a long time, Gilbert.'

She turns from him and begins the trek back to the Blythes. Gilbert watches the way the snow flakes from her skirts and swirls in the air behind her. He thinks of a comet and says to himself, 'She's already letting me go.'

The snow comes hard the next day. Anne spends most of it with Mrs Blythe in the stone cottage while Gilbert gets a start on his Modern History paper. In the dim light of the late afternoon they make snow candies again. Not people this time, but stars, snowflakes, hearts, trees, arrowheads, and flowers. Rowena spends this time in the spare room with the girl. Neither Anne nor Gilbert know her, she has come to Rowena from White Sands, and hides away from view. Every now and then Anne and Gilbert hear her sobs, then the deep, soothing voice of Rowena. Anne and Gilbert make the supper and are washing up when she finally emerges.

'I realise it's late-'

'Ma, it's five thirty,' says Gilbert. His attempts to address her more formally lasted all of a day.

'Then you won't mind making yourself scarce for a while. Snow's finally let up and I'm trying to convince Margaret to have a bath. It would be easier to do it in the covered porch. Would it be asking too much if you took yourselves for a wander, just for an hour or two? You could pop next door to the Gillis', I'm sure Ruby would be glad of your company.'

Neither say a word to the other but it's clear from the way they wrap themselves up, and especially from the tools they pack, that they have no intention of going to the Gillis'. At the last minute Gilbert grabs Anne's arm and ushers her into his room. He drops his knapsack and digs through his bureau, pulling out a pair of brown checked trousers. 'For you,' he says.

'Gil, they're hideous.'

'They were a present from Mary-Maria, a cousin of mine,' he says, darkly. 'I grew out of them long ago-'

'Why didn't you pass them on to someone else?'

'No one would have 'em. But they're good quality and exceptionally warm, and it's dark out so no one would see stylish Miss Shirley looking so-'

'Ugly I can imagine away. Scandal I cannot. If anyone spies me wearing trousers-'

'Says the girl who can get in anywhere.'

It's the first time he's sounded lighthearted all day, and it's a challenge she has never been able to resist. She unbuttons her skirts and they fall to the floor in a heap of blue and grey kerseymere. Gilbert goes his lovely blushing colour as he sees the familiar sight of Anne in her drawers and hastens out of the room. With her long cloak and knee-high boots her trousers are undetectable. They only get as far as the orchard before Anne remarks at how comfortable they are, how easy it is to move in them.

'I've always wanted a pair of jodhpurs but Marilla would never allow me to ride on horseback. I think I will now,' she muses, 'I'll ask Vincent if he'll teach me on one of Miss Barry's gentler mounts.'

Gilbert looks at her sidelong as they walk through the snow; her face light and dark with the swing of the lantern, the shape of her words left in soft clouds of breath. He stops abruptly and lifts his lamp.

'This looks as good a place as any.' He flings his knapsack onto the ground and pulls at the long wooden handles poking out of it. 'One for you,' he says, handing Anne a small shovel, 'one for me.'

The yank off their cloaks and hats and spend the best part of an hour piling up the snow, then another on their hands and knees digging a hollow into it. When they are done shifting the last load Anne falls back and stares up at an inky sky.

'I can't believe you managed to do this during that terrible storm.'

Gilbert leans on the handle of his shovel and surveys the snow-cave proudly. 'That was a hovel. This is a palace. Nice work, Shirley,' he says, offering her a hand up. 'I'll make a woodsman of you yet.'

Anne crawls inside, dragging her satchel behind her. It's warmer than she remembers; the walls curving round her like arms to welcome her home. She takes out flasks of cocoa, some fingers of shortbread, and the kindling. Gilbert had carried the tools and a mackintosh square, and, folded beneath his sweater, his great-grandmother's blanket. After searching for wood he lays down the square then smooths the blanket on top. Anne runs her bare hand over satin-fine weaving as Gilbert makes a fire near the entrance of the cave.

'Green and gold, the colours of spring,' she says, dreamily. 'It's so beautiful, Gilbert. However did she do it?'

'Slowly, I'd say, with porcupine quills.'

He tries to sound unaffected but her admiration touches him. It seems natural that she would want to know more. He takes Anne's hand and passes it over the shapes that make up the design. 'This is God,' he says of the triangle, then brings her hand to a circle. 'And this is earth. And this,' he says leading to her a five pointed star, 'is heaven...'

They're not looking at the star but at each other. In the firelight his eyes have gone gold and hers are purest green. She starts to breathe deeply, pressing her lips together, and he clutches her hand more tightly to hide the fact he's beginning to shake.

'I want to kiss you so badly-'

'I do too- but we agreed- we wouldn't-'

'No Anne- you said you wouldn't. I kissed you goodbye in September and you said we shouldn't do this anymore, not when we can't promise ourselves to each other-'

'We can't- be reasonable-'

'Oh _now_ you want to be reasonable!'

'I have always been reasonable, it's _you_ who's being romantic!'

Gilbert can't bear to touch her and yanks his hand away, but Anne is undaunted.

'Yes, you!' she insists. 'Think about it, Gilbert, you have seven years of study ahead of you. You've already made such an impression at Redmond, imagine the worlds that are about to open up, the people you'll meet-'

'That's what this is really about,' Gilbert snaps. 'You think I only have to whistle and some other girl will come and take your place -just like everyone else.' He pounds his fist against the moon on the blanket. 'Do you have any idea what it does to a fellow, being told I could have anyone, when the girl I want doesn't want me back-'

Anne's chin rises from her scarf. 'I'm sorry I hurt your pride.'

'My pride? Anne, _everything_ hurts. Being away from you hurts, being near you hurts... It's only because you said what you did that I thought I might survive seeing you again. Then I find out you're staying at my house, in my _bed-_ and all I want to do is get in there with you. And the only reason I don't is because Anne Shirley never says a thing she doesn't mean... Then you look at me like with eyes I swear I could drown in and I think, if she kisses me there is no way I'm holding back...'

He's run out of words and sits there glaring at her. Anne glares right back, her mouth gaping slightly, her bottom lip glistening and pink. The line that connects them feels physical as though it needed a knife to cut it. Then Anne remembers. She reaches for her satchel and into a pocket stitched onto the front and brings out a small parcel, her eyes never leaving his.

'I got you something,' she says, hesitantly. If her words hadn't been so unexpected he might never have found the will to look away. His eyes flick over a small rectangular item wrapped in what looks like a handkerchief. 'I'm going home tomorrow. Marilla and Martin want me and the twins with them for Christmas morning, so I made up my mind to give this to you tonight.'

Gilbert stares at the offering in her hands. A look of recognition passes over his face and his mouth breaks into a reluctant smile. 'I think I can guess what you got me,' he says, and reaches for his coat, 'because I got one for you, too.'

Anne tosses him his present and watches him unwrap it. Beneath starched cambric is a gleaming pocketknife. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. The antler handle is polished so highly it glows like amber. The knife springs from its hilt with a satisfying motion. He can see his face in the shining steel blade and knows then how much this must have cost her.

'It's to replace the one you lost,' Anne says. 'It was Matthew's.'

Gilbert's not sure if this is better or worse. The Blythe in him opts for better and he tosses Anne her gift. 'I remembered the kitchen knives you brought the first time I took you to the stream,' he says, as she opens hers. 'I've been meaning to get you one ever since, but nothing I've seen compared to the one I lost. I've had it since I was a boy, it's good and light and beautifully balanced, just right for a small hand like yours. The moment I found it again I knew you had to have it. I meant to give it to you the day I left, but I was so mad at you...' Anne keeps her head bent, studying it intently. 'You like it, don't you? Now I'm wondering if I should have got you jodhpurs.'

Anne nods, and a tear falls on her blue sweater. 'I won't need my prince to come riding in anymore. I have my own sword... soon I'll ride my own horse... But you see, Gilbert... the thing is...' she says, finally able to meet his eyes, 'I won't have you.'

'I know,' he says, miserably. 'This is hard for me, too. I don't know to love you and not be with you, Anne. I thought if you came to Redmond- and now you're going to Charlottetown and I want to be happy for you, I want to let you go the way you let me go, but I can't-'

'But I haven't let you go,' Anne protests. She looks down at the knife. It has blurred to a silvery icicle in her hands and feels just as cold. 'I've said goodbye to Matthew, and Diana... even Marilla in a way.' Her brow furrows as though she had come to a geometry problem she had no idea how to solve. 'It should be easy to say goodbye to you-'

'Easy, huh?'

'I didn't mean it like that. I was so sure I knew the depths of my heart -how to keep myself safe- and I realise I'm not. I'm falling, Gilbert- and I know I should stop- but I don't know how...'

'It's a bit of a mess, isn't it?' Gilbert mutters, because what else can he possibly say?

Anne nods, absently, and runs her hands over her little silver knife. Etched into the handle she can just make out, _F.P. Wright, 1873._ Despite herself she begins to imagine what great deed Gilbert did to win it from his chum, when she feels his hand at her chin.

'Shall we make an even bigger mess?'

Anne drops the knife and frowns. 'What do you mean?'

'You don't want to be parted from me and I don't to be parted from you-'

'You're not going to propose are you?'

'Marriage isn't the only bond,' he says, unperturbed. 'We can make one right now, just for us, one that will bind us together for always-' He picks up his old knife from her lap and hands it to her.

'You mean a blood oath?'

'Uh huh.'

'Have you done one before?'

'Have you?' Gilbert asks.

'Not with blood. Diana and I swore an oath that we would love each other forever, only I didn't cut her skin I cut her hair-'

'Sounds like something the two of you would do-'

'I still have it, too, the lock of her hair in a box in my room,' she says, fondly.

'Well this is almost as simple. You just take the tip of your knife and draw it across your thumb. It's good and sharp so it should cut clean-' He is wiping the blade of his new knife over his trousers as he says this, and notices three drops on blood on the moon where his fist had fallen.

'Now what do I do?' Anne says, calmly, holding up her hand.

'I didn't mean for you to do it right this second-' Gilbert cries. He grabs her cut thumb and slips it between his lips, then quickly slices his own.

'Do I take your thumb in my mouth now?' Anne asks.

There is a loud sucking noise as her thumb appears. 'Well, ah- that's not really the way it's done, but what the heck, why not?'

Gilbert holds out his hand and Anne places his thumb on her tongue and closes her lips around it. She is solemn at first but it doesn't last long. Soon she is giggling and so is he, because it looks so ridiculous.

'I miss your mouth,' she says, nursing her hand.

'I miss you sharp little teeth,' says Gilbert, drawing his wet thumb over her bottom lip.

'Do you think we're vampires now?'

'Only if we kill each other. Now are you ready? Press your thumb against mine.'

Anne does so, then frowns uncertainly and whispers, 'Should we say something?'

'I say we do what Quakers do and speak only if the spirit moves us.'

Things get serious then. They had been sitting but quickly feel the pull to be on their knees, so that not only their thumbs but their heads, chests and thighs meet in a strange and magic symmetry. A smile from her brings one from him, and he is glad because for a moment he thought he might cry. All sorts of jumbled memories run through his mind like a great rushing wind. The evening she opened the door in a dress that was too big for her, the night she recited Euclid in the storm. The time she got stuck on the roof of the cottage, the stinking hot day they went searching for nails. Her carnelian ring, her yellow pencil, her singular ability for climbing trees. The way she made his mother love her the way Marilla loved her, and kissed him with all of her body just as she loved him with all of her heart. How he stopped seeing himself as one and started seeing himself as two... When _we_ finish teaching... When _we_ go to Redmond... When _we_ have a house of our own...

He's not sure how long they've been kneeling but their blood has congealed. His football injury starts to ache; Anne's brown check trousers itch horribly.

'I'm sorry but I have to do this,' she murmurs. Gilbert blinks hard as he watches Anne unbutton her waistband. She reaches into her trouser leg to scratch her knee, and her eyes widen with wonder. 'I can _feel_ you inside me, Gilbert. Can you feel me?'

'Yeah-' his voice cracks as he says this, and he grins. 'Yeah, I _do_...'

The moment overwhelms them and they fall upon the universe on his blanket. Later he would swear it wasn't snow beneath them but endless, open sky. All he can do is hold Anne's very real, very freckled face in his hands and gaze at her for as long as the fire holds out.

When it dies the darkness is complete. Nothing exists but what they can feel.

And he says, 'Do you want to go home?'

And she says, 'We are home, Blythe.'

 **...**

 _* bluestocking is a Victorian term for educated women who follow intellectual rather than domestic pursuits._

 _* kerseymere is a fine wool patterned fabric_

 _* mackintosh is rubberised fabric  
_

 _* if you know my stories you will probably have noticed a lot of cross-pollination in this chapter -the arguments from GD, the sky dream from RD, the 'home' line from Love Letters, the thumb sucking from UTK, and many others- I hope you don't feel cheated, it just felt right to me to bring these elements into their story._

 ** _..._**

When I started out with the Oliver poem I thought I would be writing about taking someone into the woods (or garden) as expression of love. But the more I wrote the more I realised the woods can be any secret we keep to ourselves (our dreams, our ambitions, our hearts, our bodies) and about what happens when we dare to let people in.

I'm so grateful to everyone for reading and reviewing, especially those who never missed a chapter. And a tip o' the hat to AlinyaAlethia whose characters Mara and Shirley share a beautiful binding ceremony in her story, Pieces of Lives.

Thanks for reading, kwak

 **...**


End file.
